


Crisis

by LadyJane_BBJFE



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJane_BBJFE/pseuds/LadyJane_BBJFE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Justin is in a plane crash, Brian races to the scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crisis

“Don’t get too comfortable there, Gus, we gotta leave pretty soon to pick Justin up at the airport.” Brian glanced down at his son, who was sitting in front of the television. Gus stared too intently at the day-glo spidey-sponge-puff-whateverthefuck characters prancing across the screen. “Gus,” he repeated, knowing that his son’s intent focus would be a problem in twenty minutes or so when Brian was forced to tear the kid away from the screen. It was best to pull Gus away during commercial breaks. 

Gus glanced back at the man on the couch who peered at him over the paper “Huh?” Gus asked. 

“Don’t get too comfortable there, kiddo.” 

“Huh.” Gus turned back to the television. 

Brian shook his head and turned back to the paper. So, twenty minutes before they had to go, and this was what? A half hour cartoon? Brian decided to let Gus watch the whole thing. What was five minutes off schedule? 

He grimaced, fighting the desire to stick to his original plan and adhere to his instinct to be on time in all circumstances. He could just leave the little shit to his own devices at the airport. He wondered whether Justin would be in as pissy a mood as he’d been when he’d left Brian’s office two days ago, or whether, even worse, he’d have that cocksure attitude that had started the whole argument in the first place. 

That argument had NOT been Brian’s fault. Yeah, he’d been in a bad mood, ever since John or Bob or Dick or whatever-the-fuck his name was in the art department had missed a deadline and forced Brian to push back a meeting with the client at the last minute. He had been forced into extra niceness when they finally did meet, and Brian would have to concede far more than he had wanted in future negotiations. That is, if the client didn’t find someone else in the interim. All because of one stupid intern’s mistake. Everyone knew how much Brian hated being off schedule once he had a systemic structure mentally erected. Thus, his native unwillingness to risk being late in picking up Justin from the airport and his trip back from L.A. 

Gus didn’t know about Brian’s temperament, of course. Gus had no idea his father was a ruthless shit. Gus only knew sponge-spidey-puff was the most wonderful thing in the universe. Second only to his insanely indulgent daddy, of course. 

Justin’s whole trip was annoyingly last minute, anyway. Something about the designs on the set of Rage, the movie. Or was it a costume thread out of place? Brian had been looking forward to going out and relaxing with Justin that night - or not relaxing as the case may be, at Babylon and wherever they wanted to go after. Instead, Justin had dropped by his office mid-afternoon to announce he was desperately needed across the country.

“Can’t they just email you?”

“Nope,” Justin replied, his flippant self-confidence setting Brian’s teeth on edge. “They need the go ahead for the set. Besides, Brett said he didn’t think the loft set-up was quite right, he wanted me to come and feel it out.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Feel it out, interesting word choice. Brian glanced down at latest design Cynthia had handed him from the Art Department. The color was wrong again, fuck! “You need me to fix up travel arrangements?”

“Already got them,” Justin answered. “I was just wondering if you had time to drop me at the airport?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brian snapped. “I have time to drop everything. Take a fucking cab!” 

Silence met this. Brian looked up, expecting to see anger, or incredulity spread across that winsome face. But Justin just smiled at him and shook his head.

“What?” 

“I’m sorry we can’t go out tonight. I was looking forward to that, too, you know. I just figured you of all people would understand that business comes first.” 

He really hated when Justin did that, knew him well enough to cut through Brian’s bullshit. When these moods enveloped him like volcanic ash clouds, Brian hated having Justin around. It wasn’t that Justin tried to appease him. That was Mikey’s role, and Brian resented anyone trying to take it over. But the days of Justin’s stroking Brian’s ego had long gone. Now, Justin just smiled and shunted Brian’s sarcasm aside, more often than not leading him out of his angry mood through misdirection. 

But Brian liked being angry. It was effective. Brian liked knowing that when Dick/Bob/whomever was summoned to address this latest design imperfection, he would be cowed. Brian wanted his minions ready to put in the extra time and effort that fear inspired, so he wouldn’t waste any more of Brian’s precious time. 

“I can go out without you, you little shit. And I know all about taking care of business…” Brian gestured to the fuck-up on the desk in front of him, “…it’s not like I have time to drop everything because you need me. It’s easier when you’re not around anyway.”

Justin stiffened. Like the sudden unexpected catch of a cat’s claw on a petting hand, this old criticism slid beneath Justin’s insouciant confidence, needling him sharply. Justin answered Brian’s glare with one of his own, before he rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Fine,” he said, his tone hardened. “I’ll grab a cab. Just thought you might want to a good-bye blow job on the way over, but whatever, your loss.” He picked up his bag. “And Brian. I don’t need you either. I sure as hell don’t need your shit mood.” And with that, he had stomped out, off to Los Angeles.

Brian felt better and worse after that. Worse, because he hated actually feeling, okay, kind of bad that he had ruined Justin’s initial good mood. But mostly because he had missed out on a blow job. Still, he would have thought by now that the kid would know better than to harass him when he was working and obviously pissed off. On the other hand, maybe Justin had learned to ignore Brian’s moods altogether. Now that would really suck. For the longest time Brian had only wanted Justin to understand that Brian was fine all on his lonesome, to take a hint and leave a guy to other guys. But now… Brian wasn’t so sure what that deep uneasiness signified, that tightening in his stomach that gripped him when his lover said in so many words, I don’t need you. Wasn’t that what he had been wanting to hear, all along? I want you, great. I need you? No. So why did the negative statement bother him so much?

“Fuck,” Brian muttered. This was bullshit. That conversation had been over two days ago. Alive only in the maggots of his mind. He’d find out whether Justin was pissed at him when he met him at the airport with Gus. He had a good idea Justin wasn’t too pleased, since he had emailed Brian his itinerary without any note, and nary a phone call either. Just the facts, ma’am. None of Justin’s usual, I miss you. No phone sex. Shit. Justin must be pissed. Obviously he was pissed; Justin would never just ignore him. 

But Brian was nothing if not Pittsburg’s greatest public relations man. Showing up at the gate to greet Liberty Air 512 with Gus in tow and a big, sarcastic “Welcome home honey!” would clear up any lingering deadly relationship vibes. Maybe he’d even throw in a bouquet of lilies; Justin liked flowers. Justin would roll his eyes, and then break out in that smile of his, knowing that underneath his lover’s sarcastic, over-the-top gesture would be a grain of truth. And Justin would never give Brian shit in front of the kid. It was pure luck that Melanie had gone into labor the night before and Lindsay had dropped Gus off to stay with Brian. Gus, the perfect killer of Justin’s pissy attitude. Justin loved the kid, and showing up at the gate with Gus in one arm and flowers in the other would be as good an apology as Justin would get, and Justin would know it. It was the perfect plan. 

As long as he and Gus made it to the airport on time. 

He admitted to himself that this meant he and Gus would have to motor before the cartoon was over. Justin’s plane had a stop-over at O’Hare, but that did not guarantee his flight would be one of the 90% of stop-overs that were subsequently late at their final destination. With the way they had left things between them, Brian figured he’d better not take the risk he would not be on time to meet Justin at the gate, even if the odds were in his favor. Besides, he had to pick up flowers first, and he shuddered at the idea of picking through cheap airport bodega offerings. No, best to stop at Fields Flowers. It was on the way. 

Brian looked over at Gus watching his cartoon. He dreaded the drama that would ensue when he pulled the kid away mid-stream. As he glanced past Gus to the screen, hoping to see a commercial, the cartoon was suddenly interrupted by NBC Breaking News. That damn music that accompanied every major national announcement broke through spidey-square-pants mid-squeal. Brian stood up, relieved that he wouldn’t be the bad guy for once. “Wonder who we’re bombing now?” he thought, moving to pick Gus up off the floor. He lifted the child in his arms and turned to find the TV remote to switch it off. 

Before he fumbled over the proper button, the national news anchor began to speak. “Breaking news this hour, there has been a plane crash in Illinois, a flight apparently en route to Chicago’s O’Hare airport. Details are sketchy. We take you to our reporter at O’Hare.”

Brian slowly lowered the remote. On screen, a stern woman with a perfect blond bob appeared in front of an airline terminal with the Liberty Air logo prominently displayed behind her. “Thanks, David. I’m standing here at Liberty Air’s terminal, where we have been informed that one of Liberty’s planes has crashed on approach to Chicago, going down approximately 20 miles outside the city. We have no firm details at this hour, but we are being told that air traffic controllers were in touch with the airplane for some amount of time before they lost contact.”

“Diane, is there any indication that this is an act of terrorism?”

“Where the fuck was it coming from?” Brian heard his own voice as from a distance. It seemed very far away from the rest of him. 

“Daddy!” Gus reprimanded, placing his hand on Brian’s mouth. Brian absently picked the little fingers off his face, and held Gus’s hand tightly in his own. 

“We don’t know for sure, little information is being released.”

“Diane, I have to interrupt you, we’re getting video from our local news affiliate at the site.” On screen, a field came into view; in the distance, smoke poured up into the sky. Emergency vehicle lights pulsed crimson and flooded the scene with their light. A police cruiser blocked the camera’s view of the road ascending over a slight rise, from which the smoke billowed. The press was being kept from the scene of the crash itself; there was rushed activity in and out of what seemed to be a large field in the distance. Off screen, a voice called to the police woman at the barricade, “Were there any survivors?” A grim man standing next to the officer in the forefront of the shot replied, “No details. You’ll be informed when we have more information. Please stay behind the lines, we need to maintain access.”

The stern blonde came back on screen. “We’re being told that Liberty is setting up an 800 number for relatives once the tragic flight is confirmed. Until then, anyone concerned is encouraged to call the 800 number to check on specific flights.” As she spoke, the number scrolled across the bottom of the screen, with instructions to only call if you are a family member. 

Tragic flight, what the fuck did that mean? Why did they feel the need to provide descriptions? Just fucking say what happened! 

It probably wasn’t Justin’s plane anyway. There was no need to call that number. Brian felt his arms begin to shake, but that was because Gus was so heavy. He turned to set his child down on the couch. Then he picked up his cell phone, and hit the redial button for Liberty Air, the number he had called not two hours ago to make sure Justin’s flight was on time. No need to call the other one. 

“Welcome to Liberty Air.” Brian punched in the numbers to check for flight time and arrival information. Once he entered the necessary information, he waited for what seemed an eternity. Thank God they didn’t have canned hold music; he was listening to the news report which was providing absolutely no information. WHAT FLIGHT. On the line, a voice patiently explained, over and over, that his call would be answered as soon as possible. Two minutes went by, but the time seemed much longer. Brian glanced at the clock. He’d have to leave soon if he wanted to meet Justin’s flight. Maybe it was delayed. Looks like there would be some problems with Liberty. Or O’Hare. Who knows, airlines sucked anyway. 

“This is Lilian with Liberty Air.” 

A real human voice. Brian, startled, and then recovered enough to say, “Yeah, um, I was calling to check on Liberty 512 out of LAX, connecting through O’Hare. It was due in Pittsburgh at 12:18. I have family on the flight."

“Oh… hold on, please.” Again, cut off. But this time there was ringing, and the call was immediately picked up. Brian told himself that this didn’t necessarily mean anything, even as he felt his heart begin to race, the sudden cold clamminess of his hands. 

“Yes, sir? This is Jack, I’m a representative of the airline. You have a relative on flight 512?” 

“Yes, Justin Taylor? Is…” He couldn’t continue, but he didn’t have to. 

“I am very sorry, sir, but Flight 512 is being reported as having gone down just outside O’Hare. According to my information, Mr. Taylor boarded the flight in LA.”

Brian closed his eyes. “Are they all dead?”

There was a choked sound on the other end of the call before Jack replied tightly, “We don’t have any information at the moment but there is no reason not to believe there aren’t survivors.” Brian’s brain latched onto the number of negatives in that sentence, and he thought, what the fuck? How am I supposed to understand what he’s saying? But then Jack interrupted his gathering anger with specific directions. Directions were good. “Are you in the Pittsburgh area?” Jack asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“Liberty is arranging immediate transportation of all relatives to Chicago. There will be more direct information at the airport, I am so sorry I can’t tell you anything now, but we just don’t know. The local authorities in Chicago will be handling the immediate information regarding survivors, if there are any.”

“What the fuck happened?” Brian whispered.

“Again, I’m sorry, we don’t have that information. Can you get to Pittsburgh International? We’ll send a car to pick you up, wherever you are.”

“No… I can get a ride to the airport.” 

“Okay. Go to the first class check-in, and tell them who you are. Arrangements will be handled from there. Park in the short-term garage and tell the attendant at the gate why you’re there. If there’s any line at all at check-in, speak with an attendant who will be waiting to assist family. And sir… again, I’m very sorry.”

“So am I,” Brian muttered as he ended the call. He looked down at Gus, who was staring up at him from the couch. He’d have to drop him off somewhere. But where? The hospital, with Lindsay. But Michael and Debbie were there, too, and he didn’t want to dump this on them in the middle of their happiness. Besides, he didn’t know anything. He wasn’t sure he could handle their questions right now. 

Coming up with a solution, he dialed another number.

***

Ted had not offered any advice during the interminable drive to the airport, thank God. He hadn’t said he was sorry, and Brian appreciated that, because “sorry” was more than bullshit in this case, sorry implied that Justin was… lost, and they just didn’t know anything yet. Gus was strapped in his car seat in the back of Ted’s car, for delivery to his moms at the hospital after Brian was dropped off at the airport. 

“Have you talked to Jennifer?” Ted asked as they pulled up at the Liberty Air terminal and stopped. 

“Oh, goddammit, no.” Brian shook his head as he got out of the car. “I’ll do that, good thinking.” 

Ted leaned over. “I’ll take care of everything on this end. If you can, let us know.”

Brian had already walked away, his long strides moving him quickly through the airport doors and toward the Liberty Air desk. He approached the first class counter, bypassing the longer waits for check-in at coach. He vaguely noted a family laughing together as they joined the end of the regular line. How odd, that they could behave so normally. He stared at them, as they poked through their bags, talking to each other as if the whole world hadn’t just shattered into pieces. He'd seen families just like this one in public a million times, but this one... it was surreal. He shuddered and turned back to his own line.

There were two people at the First Class counter. A customer at the counter handed her luggage to the attendant, who in turn placed the bags onto the conveyer belt off to the side. She turned back to smile at the customer while handing over a boarding pass. Brian slowed, wondering if he should just wait. These decisions were usually fairly easy; he knew he should just barge to the front of the line. Not only was it his usual inclination, he’d also been given the go-ahead, not that he ever needed it. So what the fuck? 

“Sir?” Before he could overcome this weird reticence, an older man in the airline’s uniform approached him.

“Are you here as a relative for Chicago?”

Tactful, Brian thought, biting his lip to suppress a sudden urge to laugh hysterically at the man’s concerned demeanor. Brian only nodded, clenching his hands against the urge to strike that look of sympathy off the man’s face, to rip off his skin and see if it was just a mask the corporation distributed for just this purpose. Get a grip, Brian, he told himself. The guy’s just doing his job. 

“Maria will help you.” The attendant gestured to a young woman with that same serious look who stood at the far end of Liberty Air’s check-in area, waiting. There was a long, empty stretch of counter space between her check-in and the others. Discreet, Brian thought as he walked the length of the counter to speak with her. When he finally stood before her, his voice was tight. “I was supposed to meet Justin Taylor here at noon. He was on Flight 512.” 

“We have a flight to Chicago that’s boarding now,” Maria said, punching information into the computer. “We just need to ask a few questions.”

“I don’t have any luggage,” Brian replied. 

Maria glanced up, surprised. “Oh, no, of course not.” Her shocked face jolted down Brian’s spine. Serious, fuck, this is all so fucking serious, so fucking surreal…

“We need to see a license,” she said, and, as Brian took his wallet out of the inner pocket of his coat, she continued, “And, we need to know your relationship to Justin?”

Relative, fuck. He should have called Jennifer first. “Justin Taylor,” he answered, handing his license over. “He’s my…” the hesitation had Maria glancing up, meeting his eyes steadily for the first time, “husband,” Brian finished, softly. He waited, ready to lose it if she said a fucking word, anything close to, sorry, only relatives. Liberty was about to fucking accommodate him. But still, that odd reluctance, like skin stretched too tight over a feverish body. If he started yelling at Maria, he was afraid he would quickly move to screaming, and he wouldn't be able to stop. Not good.

Thank god, Maria only nodded, typing the information into her computer, and handed him back his license along with a boarding pass. “Gate 21. It’s boarding now, twenty minutes to take off.”

As he moved toward the gate, he remembered Ted’s advice, and dialed Jennifer’s number. 

“Hello?”

“Jennifer, it’s Brian.”

“Hello, Brian, what…”

“No, listen, look.” Fuck, how did you break this to someone? “I’m at the airport, Justin’s flight just went down outside Chicago, it’s all over the news, I’m taking off in twenty minutes. Can you get down here and onto a flight? Just go to the first class desk, they’ll put you on a plane, you can meet me in Chicago.”

“Oh my God.” There was a catch in her voice, then silence.

“Jennifer? Jennifer!”

“Yes, I’m here…”

“Did you hear me?”

“Is he… Were there any… Oh, my God.” Brian heard the sound of a TV in the background, heard Molly’s voice from a distance, questioning, “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Jesus, Jennifer, turn off the fucking TV and get your ass down here! They aren’t giving out details until we get there, and they aren’t going to release any information until relatives have been notified. They’re accommodating me now, but I don’t know if they’re going to pull that ‘family only’ bullshit later, and I need you to get your shit together and come join me. Can you get out to Chicago?” He was rough on her, he knew, and out of the corner of his eye he saw people in the line casting furtive glances his way. “I gotta go, I’m going through security.”

“Okay… I’ll meet you in Chicago.”

Brian hung up the phone, and threw it, along with his watch and wallet, into the basket for x-raying. Then he was through, and hurrying off to his flight.

 

II

Brian normally got a rush out of takeoffs: all that power thrusting the huge piece of machinery forward, the press of his body against the seat back, the gathering speed and tilt upward, the vibration of contact with the ground disappearing as the metal frame slipped suddenly into the air alone, the whine of thrusting engines, all that power absorbed in the contact of his body against the huge machine. The landing usually did not affect him at all, only a slight regret that he was back on earth. But the take-off: normally, he got a quiet rush that he never shared, enjoying the feeling of power all for himself. But nothing was normal today. Instead, today, the usual thrill of danger that came with slipping into the air, now, knowing that both takeoff and landing were the most dangerous minutes in the air, now the feeling made him feel sick. Normally it turned him on… normally. There that was again. Normal, nothing was normal today. He only felt sick at his usual thrills. The games he played in his head, dodging death, were only for himself. Why did they seem to keep playing out in Justin’s reality?

“Mr. Kinney.” He turned his head to look up at the flight attendant who was leaning across the empty seat between him and the aisle. “If I can do anything for you, anything at all, just let me know.”

He nodded, and began to turn away, but changed his mind. “Do they know anything yet?” He couldn’t help asking, even though the airlines would never give such information to a flight attendant. 

“I’m sorry, we haven’t been told anything.” Of course not. 

“I don’t suppose you get CNN here.” He tapped the video monitor in front of him. On the screen, a graphic showed the airplane’s position in the sky over a cut-out section of the Northeast U.S. 

“Unfortunately, we just get movies and canned video. The captain will be in touch with the ground. If he hears anything, he’ll tell me and I’ll let you know.” She paused. “Last I heard, they were saying there were survivors. I can’t know for sure, but…”

He managed a wan smile. Survivors. Could he even begin to hope? Brian knew how rumors flew; few panned out. Only time would bear out the truth; hope was irrelevant. “Yeah. Uh… can I get a glass of scotch? Just a small amount, one shot, no ice.”

“Certainly, I’ll bring it right over.” She walked away.

He stared out the window at the ground below. An hour and a half in the air, too short to climb far up. It was a clear day; he could see the ground slipping past, all the little houses visible, the trees, the earth below. People going about their normal lives. He always felt superior to them, but right now he envied them with an intensity that made it hard to breath. 

He leaned his head back against the seat. Up to this point, he had been in full active mode, and now, with the sudden enforced stillness of his body, he could feel the shaking of his bones under the surface of his skin, the blood pounding too fast in his veins. That shakiness had been kept at bay as he figured out what to do with Gus, where to go, as he rushed to catch the next plane, called Ted, called Jennifer, rushed through takeoff… suddenly he had nothing to do but wait. Wait and think. 

The flight attendant, Diane according to her name tag, came back with his drink. Thank god. Barely a shot, filling the barest amount of the glass. Probably for the best. Brian accepted the drink and swallowed it in one gulp, before he tossed the empty glass into the seat next to him and turned back to the window. 

Jesus, that argument, how stupid had that been. Was that even an argument? What a stupid way to leave things, just to end… No, he didn’t know damn it, didn’t know anything yet. But yeah, obviously Justin had been pissed, with no word from him in two days when they always called to check up. Or, Justin always called Brian. Brian rarely made the first move; Brian had long established that fact. Brian leaned his forehead onto the window, his brow touching the cool surface. I’m such an asshole, he thought. And Justin may be learning my tricks too well. The old Justin would have called right away. He would not have been okay with leaving Brian to his asshole ways, not okay with letting this argument or whatever this stupid thing was, not okay with letting it just be there, between them. The Justin prior to this latest phase in their relationship, at least, the one who bashed his head bloody against the cement around Brian’s heart (and oh god why did he have to use *that* metaphor), Justin would have tried to shake him up; he would never have been content to let this stupid disagreement over a fucking ride to the airport stand between them. The old Justin would have called, yelled, and then soothed Brian’s responsive and unrelenting temper with hot words of a different sort, so that Brian could never stay mad at him after an orgasm coaxed by just words over a phone line, a negligible encounter that would still be a better experience than any anonymous fuck in the back room at Babylon. 

The new Justin just let Brian ride, and didn’t do a damn thing to confront his bullshit head-on. Now Justin kept whatever he was thinking to himself, and let Brian rage away. Except for that chicken soup episode, as Brian had begun to call it in his head. He definitely preferred Justin’s temper to his iciness. Brian hadn't understood, up to this very moment why he was so fixated on remembering Justin's yelling at him to eat the damn soup, fixated but not in a bad way. Now he realized: that temper had indicated signs of life, Justin's resistance to Brian's bullshit. And it had taken Brian being a total prick, throwing Justin out, not telling him about the cancer, resisting his care even when the radiation made Brian feel like dying. Justin took care of him anyway, there the little shit was, putting into play everything Brian had tried to hammer into his head over all those years: words mean nothing, action is all. 

So what did Justin’s new actions of shrugging off Brian’s bullshit mean? Was he moving past Brian’s world? Suddenly Brian couldn’t remember why he so emphatically needed Justin to acquiesce to Brian’s own philosophy of showing and not telling, about standing on your own in the brave new world, yeah, okay, it was bullshit, such petty bullshit that this sudden overwhelming shift in reality clarified, a reality so fucked up that every little bit of it outlined more clearly the edges of this new and horrifying thing he was flying into, this brave new world. In the face of the jagged edges of this new reality all that past bickering was just so much bullshit, dim and hazy bullshit. Justin used to fight to get Brian to understand that the bullshit Brian was so good at producing wasn’t worth the time it wasted. The old Justin fought to get Brian to understand that he was wasting time and potential sources of strength, not weakness. That Justin knew, maybe even more so after he’d been hurt by Hobbes, that all Brian’s crap was just that. Life is too short to waste the time. Wake up, Brian, he imagined the words coming through Justin’s voice, the old Justin who knew with another sort of blow, that physical blow to the head instead of the constant battering blows to the heart, that it all could be taken away, and who wanted to be left with a life of regret, with what could have been? Brian had wanted to toughen Justin up, to get him to put up barriers of protection. Just like me, Brian thought. 

And then there was the fiddler, that interloping Lothario, who showed Justin what Brian already knew all too well about words. Again, not Justin’s words, but someone else’s. You’re still so young, Brian had told him, over and over. Experience will screw you. Let me show you exactly how.

And if Hobbes had bashed his head, Brian and the fiddler had bashed his heart. So what was the solution? To walk around in a metaphorical helmet because some asshole with issues can do damage? Was that Brian’s wisdom?

Oh, what, you’re so smart? Justin’s voice again, and the perfect return, the belief that it wasn’t about experience; for Justin, it was something else. Experience isn’t the only lesson out there, and maybe experience isn’t about shutting down and protecting yourself. Justin would have said, fuck that. The old Justin would have said fuck that, there’s more to life, there’s more to me, more to you. More to us, fuck the world, fuck what it does. I’m different. You can be too. We can be different together. No man is an island (and ask not for whom the bell tolls). 

Brian shied away from his usual default to morbid literary references, to pursue instead what Justin might think, resisting his own propensity to just shut the little shit up. Brian instead thought, Maybe that’s what this has been since we got back together, Justin processing his experiences. I always just dump things into the past, forget them, move on. At least, I say I do, don’t I? That mantra, “I thought you were past all that,” when I came upon him drawing those slaughter pictures right before the Pink Posse acting out, but it wasn’t bullshit, not to him. Putting experience behind you doesn’t mean that it’s forgotten. It gets translated into action. Deeds become words and vice versa – not all rhetoric is marketing bullshit. Pain has a way of not staying in the past, it translates into the future. My own experience translated into words saying love is bullshit. No one will take care of you. And those words translated my own pain become action. Put a helmet around my heart so that hate just bounces off. And so does everything else. 

So maybe sometimes words did mean something. 

And so here was the new Justin, a new translation. There when Brian needed him, when Brian was sick with radiation poisoning, refusing to walk away. But this Justin was not exactly walking toward Brian either. He knew to keep Brian at arm’s length. Watching, wary, waiting for the next blow. 

And what was Brian’s response? You don’t like the way I strike out, get off the playing field. Don’t like that I’m busy, annoyed, and taking it out on you? Get your own fucking cab. 

Fuck. It was never a game to Justin. So why did he suddenly give up his position, when did he start playing Brian’s game? Was that what was happening? Or was he waiting for Brian to finally get a clue, to figure that out, to join him in a world where words matched actions, matched intent? Brian had always thought of that as la-la land. And, in his experience, it had been. 

And Justin… he figured Justin would find that out too. Just like Brian had. And so what, Brian was going to show him just how cruel the world was by enacting the face of that cruel world? To turn Justin away from his idealism, his belief in love, the belief in things important enough to fight for? 

“You want him to deny who he is, how he feels…” His own words, and he’d meant them, had been really angry and disgusted when he’d spat them at Craig Taylor, that homophobic prick, his own words coming back to haunt Brian as he sat here, uncertain in a way he’d never been in his life, doubting everything he ever thought he knew. He accused other people of living bullshit lives. But what had he himself been doing? 

Brian bit down on his bottom lip, tasting blood, feeling the pain. It didn’t distract him at all. He bit harder. Nope. The pain was there; it didn’t hurt, it couldn’t hurt him, he wouldn’t acknowledge it. He could master it, he could master all pain, see, look at this, the tender flesh just inside and under his lower lip, shredding, and he didn’t care, didn’t care, he didn’t *feel* it. 

But the other pain, clogging at the back of his throat, something deep down fighting to rip out past the lip he was biting down on, that he felt. The shaking in his hands, that he felt. 

He opened his teeth, ending the damage he was causing his mouth. This wasn’t working; he had to admit, if only to himself. The old tricks didn’t work in this situation, no matter how much better it felt to inflict physical pain on himself and create something he could control. The luxury of refusing to feel anything at all. As much as he would love to drown himself in the first class whiskey that tasted like ashes and felt like balm as it hit his stomach to be picked up by his blood and spread through each cell in his body, drowning out the pain, calming this awful trembling that shimmied just under his deceptively still surface, that wasn’t the answer either. 

He couldn’t do this right now; he had to stop fighting himself. Of all the selfish bullshit, this was something he could do right now, just cut the crap. Justin needed him, fuck. Needed him to keep it together. And if he was okay… well, Justin needed him still, more than he knew, even though he didn’t know why, but Brian did, what was that about shock, opening eyes? Wasn’t there a song about that? Oh, crap, please no song lyrics bouncing around in my head. 

Instead, Brian only heard his partner’s words on the night of their big reunion: “I know what to expect.” Yeah, Justin knew to expect a whole bunch of nothing from Brian expressed in action that might mean anything at all, but just don’t think about it, because you don’t know me, I’ll give you nothing, no explanations, no expression of intent or of feelings or of expectations, only expressions of nothing. Let that be enough. You, Justin Taylor, can expect to be kept at arm’s length, denied your natural urge to create something bigger. No expectations. Justin probably expected nothing but bullshit reminders of how little he was needed by the man he still loved, but loved differently now. The artist, who lived for expression, facing the blank canvas. And he is okay with that? No, no no no no. Something is not right here. This isn’t right. Why would Justin think this was all right? Why was Brian allowing - no, outright encouraging Justin to believe this was all right, just giving in, to himself, his own past, his own bullshit so easily? And it had taken a fucking plane crash and even his partner’s death to open Brian's eyes to how deep the bullshit went? Only when it was already too late?

“Fuck,” Brian whispered. He heard his own pain in that expression, and clamped his lips together. No, he didn’t know yet, he didn’t know anything yet.

He did know why he had allowed this whole situation to arise, though; he directed the relationship, so its parameters felt safe, felt comfortable, felt familiar. Those familiar feelings, all based on experience, all bullshit. The only feeling that he knew was true right now was the pain deep inside, in every cell, the pain at knowing that he might already have lost the most important thing in his life, maybe the only thing that would lead him away from the bullshit he’d indulged up to now. That, and the rightness of remembering the feeling of his own body against his lover’s. That he knew, without doubt. Absolute right. 

But where he was at this moment was not right, none of it was right. He should be greeting Justin at the gate with Gus, apologizing in his own way without words, without conceding anything to his other, continually denying him points in a game that suddenly felt completely meaningless in this brave new world he’d just been thrust into. His need to be on top, always in control, suddenly felt ridiculous; worse than ridiculous, it was truly meaningless. Brian wasn’t in control; he had never been in control. And now… he might have to live knowing that Justin thought he didn’t really care. Not enough. Never enough. 

All the familiar words he normally told himself were wrong, completely out of place here on this nightmare flight to Chicago. He had never expected to be here, never expected to have yesterday’s, hell, this morning’s words that declared he could do whatever the fuck he pleased and really, it was all for the best. It wasn’t for the best, not for him, and certainly not for Justin. Brian wasn’t in control, he was in a fucking airplane on his way to a national disaster. How the fuck had this happened? He sure as hell had no idea. He didn’t know shit; his whole life was suddenly exposed as based on lies, the lies he learned from those epic self-centered parental bullshitters, lies he hadn’t been strong enough to fight, not as a child, not even, apparently, as an adult. 

Was he only able to think all of this now, in the quiet of first class, because he knew damn well the odds were he’d never have to deal with it at all? Never have to solve this, never have to risk any bit of himself by trying to reach out with words, to reach out with more than just his bullshit experience and egomaniacal selfishness, instead of saying something honest to Justin, to reveal this? Because he knew…

No. Nope, he didn’t know anything.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty-five minutes gone. Just what he needed, ninety minutes of hell on this plane, stewing in the knowledge of how badly he had fucked up, suddenly aware only when it was (might be!) too late, knowing only now that he needed to pay attention to someone else’s sensibilities instead of his own, to just fucking listen for once and actually take seriously ideas outside of his own experience, for no good reason at all, to just take a leap of faith and not impose his own will on everything. Could he even do that? 

But Brian considered the idea, for the first time in his life. Just make him okay, he chanted to himself, in his head, over and over, Just let him be okay and I won’t try to control him, or even myself, I won’t play it safe anymore. Life isn’t safe, isn’t that the obvious point here? Please, whoeverthefuck is out there, don’t take him away from me, don’t be that cruel, don’t leave me unfinished. 

He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes since takeoff. One hour to go. 

“Um, I’m sorry, are you flying into O’Hare for Flight 512?” 

Brian turned his head to look across the aisle at the woman sitting in the seat just behind his. First class staggered the seating for maximum privacy. Brian desired; he turned away.

“I’m sorry,” the woman continued, relentless. “But…” Her voice was raspy, as she finished, “…my husband and daughter are… were, on that flight.” 

Brian turned back. He had no idea what to say as he finally saw her shaking hands, the eyes bright with repressed tears, the pinched skin about her mouth. 

The flight attendant came down the aisle, and addressed them both. “I’m sorry, we still don’t know anything. But if there’s anything else I can do…”

“Reverse time and make my family miss their flight?” 

The attendant visibly blanched, and Brian felt a vicious satisfaction. Normally, he would have been the one to destroy the airline workers’ ongoing attempts to accommodate what they “knew” he was feeling. And here was this frumpy, washed-out looking woman telling this perfectly clueless idiot that she couldn’t know and certainly couldn’t do anything. Just what Brian was thinking. His interest was piqued. 

“Just leave me alone, please.” The attendant walked away, probably relieved to return to her normal duties. Serve drinks, hand out hot towels, get the first class drunk. Normal routine, normal, normal, normal. What the fuck was normal anyway? His normal was completely blown out of the water, oh, oops, out of the sky. He watched the attendant, Diane according to her name tag, as she leaned in to talk to a passenger on the other side of the cabin. The passenger smiled; Diane’s smile was natural in response. How was such interaction possible? How was it possible that people went about their daily business? 

Brian glanced at his watch. 12:35 now. They were due in O’Hare at 1:30… okay, 2:30 with the time shift. He should be back in Pittsburg, waiting for 512 passengers stumbling off the plane. With Gus on his hip. And an ironic flowery offering. Waiting for Justin to come down the corridor. Cursing out the overhead announcement that told waiting relatives, including him and this woman now sitting behind him whom he normally would not have even glanced at, that the plane was late. Of course. Gus telling him to not say “Shit!” and Brian shrugging Gus’s hand off his mouth, and adding “Fuck!” just to be perverse and to hear Gus squeal. Going to the counter, asking how long it was going to be. Blaming Justin silently for the delay, for wasting his time, for making him care enough to actually be there in the first place. 

Instead, he was on a plane himself, looking back at this woman who looked a lot older than her age, what, early 40’s? Impossible to tell with the stress stretching out her skin, her shoulders shaking slightly, and a small shiver rippling down her body in waves. 

Well, she wasn't the only one, he thought, forcefully relaxing his clenched hands. He finally answered her. “Yeah, 512. Lucky us.” 

The woman glanced at his hand, checking for the ring. “Family? Girlfriend?”

“Boyfriend.” 

“Oh.” She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“I think you can save sorry for yourself.”

“Oh… you must hate that assumption. But no, I just meant, you know.”

Brian did know. But he was oddly relieved his habit of anger was carrying him through. He wasn’t sure he could manage otherwise.

“But I guess everyone must just assume when they ask you. That it’s a girl. Or a family at home.”

“He is family. Family plus.” Was that true, really? Were they really that close these days? Were they ever? 

She laughed mirthlessly. “I like that, it’s a good way to define marriage. But I’m sorry.” She blushed, realized she was repeating a sentiment he had not welcomed. The flush was an improvement to her skin’s grey cast around the eyes and mouth, and he saw that she was actually much younger than he had first thought. Maybe mid 30’s. “Are you married then?”

“I think the wife wouldn’t understand my thing with Justin.” 

“I mean…”

“Yeah I know.” Brian sighed, shifted back in the chair to face her more squarely. “I’m thinking too much. You're a good target for distraction. It’s not personal.” 

“I understand. As you say, distraction. I’m trying not to think about it by babbling at you. I don’t know any gay couples. My husband, Jack, he’s kind of…”

“Homophobic?”

“He’s an uberguy.”

“As opposed to an ubergay.”

She barked out a harsh laugh. “Oh, yeah, Jack’s the total opposite of ubergay. Out of shape, getting old, bored with his job, bored with me. Bored but entrenched. Judgmental.” She raised a hand to her face. “Why am I saying this to a complete stranger?”

“Same reason I’m giving you a hard time. It helps not to think about other things.” 

“True.” She was quiet for a second. Then, “I’m Mary Clark.”

“Brian Kinney.”

“I’m really worried about my daughter,” Mary said, looking away for a moment.

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah. Grace. She was traveling with Jack. On the way back from his parents in California.” 

“I have a son. He’s with his mother though. Safe in Pittsburg.” He didn’t add, thank god. That would be needlessly cruel.

“Really? So what, you were married and met… Justin, right? And realized you were totally in love, and the feelings you had all along were real, you weren't, well, marriage material?”

Brian snorted. “Sorry, Mary, that’s someone else’s Lifetime Original Movie.” Oh, god, this woman probably was into Harry Potter fanfic too. 

“Oh, I’m…”

“Don’t be,” he interrupted, almost adding ‘sorry’s bullshit,’ before he stopped himself. “A friend wanted my sperm. I’ve never been the marrying type.”

“Bet Justin doesn’t believe that.”

Brian shook his head. Justin didn’t used to believe that. He had no idea what Justin believed now. 

“Probably smart of you, though,” Mary continued. She leaned forward. “Can I tell you something?” Brian reluctantly gestured for her to move into the seat next to his. She was annoying, but still less bothersome than his private thoughts. Justin would never believe I invited someone to sit next to me on a plane, he thought. Sometimes I don’t even like him sitting next to me. Damn, I really am an asshole.

Mary gratefully moved into the adjacent seat, and settled in. “Sometimes I wish I’d never met Jack. I mean, of course, I don’t regret having Grace… But my first thought on hearing the news was, maybe he’s dead, and maybe she’s okay. That’s pretty awful, isn’t it?” Her voice was choked.

“I think something like this brings out feelings we’d rather not think about,” Brian responded. “You need a drink? I need another drink.” He gestured over to Diane, who came to them immediately. “Can I have another shot? That’s it, cut me off. And, Mary…”

“Wine, white wine please.” As Diane hurried off, Mary continued with her too-much-information patter. It still seemed better to Brian than listening to himself think. “It’s not that I regret Grace, it’s that I used to be a dancer, you know? In college. I was pretty good. You’d never know looking at me, huh? But I was really good, in fact, the San Francisco ballet was a real possibility, it was practically a for-sure that I’d get in. And then I met Jack.”

“And got pregnant.” 

“No, that's somebody else's Lifetime Original Movie, Brian.” Brian couldn’t stop the laugh that this surprised out of him. Mary shook her head. “It wasn’t anything that excusable. I fell in love. At least, that’s what I told myself. Now, though, I think it wasn’t that, I think I was afraid. And so I let myself use Jack as an out. And I think that’s why I resent him so much now, not because of who he is, there’s still a lot of good in him. It’s just… he never helped me help myself. He wanted me to be the woman who would be there for him, for me to fit into his life and his lifestyle. And I didn’t have enough balls to tell him to go to hell. I didn’t have the balls to become as great a dancer as I could, and live up to how I’d always seen myself. I gave in too easily to who he wanted me to be, and just mirrored back his image of the world. Is it normal for women to do that? I think so. One partner’s always stronger, anyway. Of course, we never fought in the beginning. Maybe if I’d fought him more right off. We started fighting a couple of years ago, when I really started to regret my choices. Grace is old enough that she doesn’t need me, and without her, who am I? So I’ve been blaming him. And you know, I know I can only blame myself, that’s what they tell us, right? We make our own choices. You stand alone, no one can help you. But that’s bullshit, because Jack was actually really weak. He needed me to support him because he wasn’t secure enough in himself and he sure as heck wasn’t secure enough with me, the confident dancer he had actually fallen in love with. What’s that song, ‘I gave him my heart but he wanted my soul?’ He was weak, but he had the power in our relationship and power corrupts, right? He thought he knew what was best for himself, and for me. For us. And he didn’t know diddly. He thought he did. And I let him. You know?”

“Oh, I know,” Brian answered. Wow, apparently it wasn’t just him; this was pervasive relationship crap. Who knew. Maybe he hadn’t blown everything after all. 

“I’m sorry, I’m talking only about me,” Mary added, when the silence stretched out. Brian realized it had been his turn to speak, and he gestured her to continue. He closed his eyes as her words washed over him, and tried to focus on her voice, ignoring the second glass of whiskey and the mental image of what Justin must have gone through not four hours ago.

And then they were finally landing in Chicago, and Diane was assisting them off the plane where they were greeted by a tall, older man with a grim face in a navy Armani suit and silver tie. “I’m Richard Warburton,” he introduced himself. Warburton directed them to follow him to an isolated suite.

 

III

They followed Warburton into a large room, and looked around at the hundred or so others gathered there. Warburton turned around to face him and Mary. Several people approached Warburton, but pulled back when they realized there were new arrivals, waiting for a moment to speak to the apparent man in charge. 

“We don’t have a lot of information right now,” Warburton began.

Brian interrupted, “Are there survivors?”

“As best we can tell, about a ninety or so people managed to exit the plane.”

“Out of how many?” 

Warburton straightened his spine as that canned, I’m-in-charge-here look melted from his face. The mask slips, Brian noted with satisfaction. Good, this prick better realize real quick who’s about to be in charge. “One hundred and ninety-seven.”

Mary moaned, an animal sound. Brian didn’t even glance at her. “You must have heard something by now. Do you have a list of survivors?”

“So far we’ve put names to forty-four who were treated for lesser burns and smoke inhalation and were able to give us their names. We also have a list of about twenty who… couldn’t… but had identification on them. Mr. Taylor and your family, Mrs. Clark, were not on either list of the known recovered. So far. Please remember those are NOT complete lists.”

Mary began crying silently. Brian reminded her through gritted teeth, “They’re not complete lists, Mary. We don’t know anything yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Warburton continued, “I really must attend to…”

“No, you mustn’t,” Brian interrupted. “Or, if you must, you will go get me someone who will be able to answer my questions, or at least get me to whatever hospitals your ‘victims’ were taken to. Now. Now, Warburton!” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and finished his diatribe with, “Oh, FUCK,” and Warburton blanched before practically running away. The phone was off! What the fuck? Shit, shit, shit, what the fuck, when had he done that? He hit the power button, waited for the voice mail to beep, and there it was. A number of incoming calls, one from Jennifer, probably telling him what flight she was on. Three from Michael. 

None from Justin. 

He closed his eyes, indulging himself for just a moment before snapping them open and looking around the room. Warburton was off to the side, talking with two women and a man. All were crying. The other occupants of this banal hell seemed incapable of standing. They held onto each other, leaned on each other, and stared at Warburton, waiting. The weight on his shoulder told him Mary had leaned into him. “Mary, Mary!” She looked up and he shrugged her off. “Don’t fall apart.” She seemed unable to focus. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He turned to a young man sitting a bit away on a hard plastic chair. “Hey! Yeah, you! How long have you been here?”

“Forever.” The boy practically whispered his reply. 

“No, seriously, half hour? Hour?”

The kid glanced at his watch. “Yeah, waiting for news.”

Brian shook his head, disgusted, and began to let the clog in his throat clear up. Here on the ground again he could fucking *do* something. “Hey! Warburton!” He strode the distance separating them, as Warburton quickly promised the people to whom he was speaking that he would "do what I can." Then Warburton turned to fully face the angry man bearing down on him. His face tightened as Brian made his demands. “If you don’t get me transportation right fucking now to whatever hospitals the survivors are at so I can take a look at people who can’t give you their names, I am going to go outside to the media I’m sure are camped out there and tell them Liberty is not helping the families to the best of its abilities. We all know how that plays in America. If you don't get me fucking transportation, right now, I'll do it myself.”

Warburton motioned him aside. Brian stepped further away from the others. “Mr. Kinney, I appreciate how distraught you are…”

“No, you really don’t.”

Warburton ignored him, and continued in an urgent but still calm tone. He had lost the expression of sympathetic understanding, however. Thank god. “…the hospitals have asked that we hold relatives here until the emergency staff is not so overwhelmed. The trauma centers are at full capacity; every doctor in Chicago is there, along with all the staff, they’ve all been called in, it’s crazy even without terrified family members getting in the way. I know it seems incredible, but it’s been barely four hours since the plane went down. The relatives whose family members are… dead, or dying, the ones so badly burned there’s no recovery, if we know who they are, we’ve sent those families along to the hospital. We’ve also sent the families to surviving relatives. When we know who they are. The hospital personnel don’t want people crowding the ERs right now. We have people taking photos of the unidentified, and they will forward the pictures to us as they come in for distribution as soon as possible. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this right away, Mr. Kinney, but we’re all doing the best we can in horrifying circumstances.” Warburton paused, noticing how Brian’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I can’t imagine how hard waiting is.” He hesitated. 

Brian prompted him: “What?” 

“I work closely with Dan Wheeler,” Warburton continued, naming the Vice President of Marketing, a man Brian knew well. “We appreciate the work Kinnetic does for Liberty. When I saw your name on the list flying in from Pittsburgh, I spoke with Dan, not an hour ago. We are both terribly sorry to hear Justin was on 512. Dan remembers meeting him. He says he is a wonderful and gifted young man. Believe me, if we were going to accommodate anyone here, it would be you. But the doctors have to be in charge right now, and there’s nothing we can do but stay out of their way and wait.”

Brian bit his lower lip, and took a deep breath. Fuck. Me. He exhaled, and said, “I’m keeping you from your job. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

“I am more than happy to do it. You should know that Jennifer Taylor is due to arrive in just under an hour. And we will have the pictures sent over from the hospitals, soon. We’re encouraging people to leave a description with Marianne, that’s the woman in red at the computer by the window, so that any incoming photos may be… shown first to those who may match. You should go talk to her. I’ll be back, and please ask my assistants for anything you need.” He gestured across the room to the woman standing behind a quickly constructed counter typing information as an older gentleman gestured at her. There was a short line of people waiting for their turn to speak to her. There were also three young people in company uniforms standing on either side of this makeshift reception area, one speaking to a young woman whose hand was clutching at his. 

Warburton shook Brian’s hand, and Brian moved across the room to sit next to Mary. 

She smiled wanly. “I think I’m glad I’m with you. Someone who can take charge.”

“Mary, today I am definitely not in charge. See that line over there? We need to give that woman a description of our people.” 

*** 

“Brian! Have you heard anything?” Jennifer rushed up to Brian and he stood. She grabbed him for a big hug, threatening to never let go. 

He gently pushed her away. “No.” He glanced at Warburton, who had accompanied Jennifer into the waiting area. Warburton corroborated Brian’s answer by briefly shaking his head. Families still knew little more than what the news channels were revealing. Someone had brought in a television and turned on CNN, which had announced that the accident probably wasn’t due to terrorism, and that the plane had been descending for landing when all hell broke. Survivors were reporting there had been an odd bang, and the plane shook, and then tilted, righted briefly, and then went down fast and hard. The plane had crashed near the interstate; apparently the pilot had managed to line up on a fairly even field, but at the last second the plane had tipped and rolled across the hard earth. The pilot managed to tell air traffic controllers that they had lost the ability to control the plane. Both pilots were dead. Video from a passenger in one of the cars on the interstate was now being shown on CNN. It showed the first part of the crash, the plane descending so fucking slowly, looking good except for the fact that it was headed for a open field. And then, at the last second, a small tilt and the left wing hit first and the plane rolled as a huge explosive bubble engulfed the jet, blooming up in an obscene flower of orange flames and black smoke. 

Brian had briefly left the room so he wasn't forced to hear the repeat of a hundred people crying out in horror. It was bad enough, to know Justin had been in that, without witnessing his own reaction screamed back at him in others' voices. 

Brian stood in the long corridor outside the waiting room. He reflexively pulled out a cigarette. Remembering he was indoors, he glanced down the hall. Only a lone security guard stood a distance away, near the far window bank. As he cast about for an exit sign, the guard approached him. Brian glared, knowing damn well he shouldn’t smoke inside. But the man had only handed him an empty soda can. "For the ashes," he said, before returning to his post. 

Brian wanted the cigarette break to last much longer, but he had had to go back in because every so often a new picture would circulate into the waiting room, or a series of them would filter in to be passed around. And then someone would know. He hated watching the inevitable breakdown, but each time he thanked god that was not him. He did not envy Warburton his job, having to break this news to people. After watching a grown man faint, Brian had stopped watching. There was no way to prepare for the first time Warburton pulled him aside to show him a picture recently sent over. Brian suspected that they had a stack each time, but Warburton and an older attendant tightly managed distribution. Probably for the best, Brian thought. Emergency medical technicians had filtered into the room as the news grew more and more grim. More than half of the passengers were dead. And now their loved ones needed the oxygen and sedation they no longer required. Unreal, this only happened in movies. This didn't happen in real life. After all he had been through, Brian would have thought he could manage his physical reaction better than this. This, this was why he had never wanted to feel anything. But if he didn't feel anything, who would be there for Justin? No matter how twilight-zone bizarre, how terrifying this was, he wouldn't be anywhere else. If this was Justin's life, even just the end of it, he was glad he was here, somewhere in it. Justin's life, yes, his life. We still don't know anything, he told himself. Until then... He reminded himself that he didn’t know yet, and anything can still happen, again and again.

Warburton warned him the first time he pulled Brian aside to hand him a photograph. “Brian, they covered this man’s head with a towel, so I don’t know… they thought it best. I’m afraid it’s still…” He didn’t said anything more, just handed Brian the picture. 

Brian’s hands began shaking. He took a deep breath, and felt his stomach twist. Oh god, oh dear god, no please. No. Finally, he looked down.

As Warburton had said, the young man’s head was covered with a towel, but Brian knew, from the deep laceration that blossomed up to the hairline, the black burn across the jaw and down the neck, that what was underneath the cloth would be impossible to view and remain sane. Now he understood why that old guy had fainted. Brian felt the blood rush from his own head, and he felt dizzy for a moment. But he was able to shake his head. “No, it’s not him.” Oh, fuck, thank whatever god was out there, thank god. He staggered back to Mary, and almost fell back into the chair. He leaned forward, propping himself up with his elbows on his thighs, and burying his head in his forearms. Mary rubbed his back. He forgot to tell her to fuck off, to not touch. 

Ten minutes later, Warburton approached again, but this time he addressed Mary. “Mrs. Clark, there’s an eight-year old girl we think is your daughter. She just revived from a fairly serious case of smoke inhalation. We think it’s Grace.” He handed her a picture, and Mary started weeping and hyperventilating. “It’s her, I gotta go.”

“We have transportation arranged, Linda will take you to Cook County.” Mary stood, then turned back to Warburton. “Jack…”

He shook his head. “She was brought out by another passenger. She’s upset, so she hasn’t been asked any questions. It’s best if you’re there first.” 

Mary took a deep, shuddering breath. Then she turned to Brian, who watched her. He was glad Mary’s daughter was safe, but he bet his remaining ball that she’d feel sudden guilt over what she’d said about the husband. Yup, there it was in her expression: shame. Mary squared her shoulders and reached down to clasp his shoulder with a suddenly strong hand. “I hope you get good news soon.”

He nodded. “I hope Grace recovers quickly,” he simply replied. And then he watched her disappear through the exit, accompanied by an attendant.

The next photograph came just before Jennifer arrived, and he had been very glad she missed that one. Burns. Fire and blunt trauma. Smoke inhalation and burns, bashed in heads and impaled torsos. Looking at a horribly injured corpses, strangers or not, did not get any easier. But the relief was the same, too.

And then Jennifer was there. Brian was pretty sure the relief he felt was still from the photograph not being Justin, and not her presence, but at this point he’d basically stopped trying to manage his feelings, so whatever. He was relieved, and she’d finally arrived. 

“Do they know anything?” Jennifer asked as she practically fell into the chair next to his. 

“Not about Justin. And you don’t want to know about the rest of it,” Brian answered, thinking of the video from the news. “Don’t watch the news yet. Not until… not until we know something.” He watched Jennifer out of the corner of his eye, wondering how she would handle this situation. He wouldn’t blame her if she’d somehow found a way to take out her anger on him. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Instead, she took his cold left hand in both of hers. Her hands were surprisingly warm. “How are you holding up, Brian?” 

The question surprised an honest answer out of him. “Same as you, I imagine. Is Molly okay?”

“I don’t know,” Jennifer replied. "I dropped her off with a friend." She paused, thinking of it. “I barely remember. Kate, I think.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’m sure she’s fine. Justin hasn’t called?”

He offered what he could. “He usually leaves his cell phone in his jacket when he travels. And sometimes he puts his jacket in the overhead. He wouldn’t have time to get it, I imagine.”

“But still, he would have called.” 

Brian shrugged. “Doubt it. My numbers are on his speed dial, and I doubt he memorized them. Digital age generation, you know.” 

Justin knew his personal cell number. But Brian knew lying was the right decision when hope seemed to light for the first time in Jennifer’s eyes. “But he’d have the numbers written down somewhere, he’s not that stupid…” 

“Yeah, cuz Justin plans ahead like that.” 

Jennifer snorted agreement. Then she cocked her head to the side, studying him. He waited, unable to summon any defense to whatever was coming. “You know,” she said, “when I went to the counter at Liberty Air, they told me Justin’s husband had managed to catch the earlier flight, and so I’d be with family when I got to Chicago. I felt… really glad about that. It was nice to know I had, well, family who would be there. I don’t think I could do this alone. And... I'm glad it’s you.”

Brian could have said any number of things in response to that. He could have pointed out that he had only said “husband” because he didn’t want to risk any shit because of his and Justin’s questionable relationship status, and that word had seemed the easiest way to bypass potential issues. Of course, he also could have said he was an uncle. Or a half brother. Well, he hadn’t thought of that, had he? but even if he had… He still would have said what he did. It was easier. Less bullshit. He just nodded, and they sat in silence. 

“Brian?” Warburton gestured Brian from a few feet away. He held yet another picture. Jennifer shifted forward, but Brian held her back. “I’ll do it. Trust me, you don’t…” He just shook his head. “I’ll do this, okay?” He gave her hand a last squeeze, let go, and then stood up and took the picture from the other man. One more deep breath. The odds were getting bad here. “This young man is alive,” Warbuton said as he handed the picture over.

Brian looked down. Took a huge breath, and even though he knew Jennifer was sitting mere feet away, her name exploded from his lungs: “JENNIFER!”

 

IV

Justin was alive. Unconscious, but alive. Beyond that, there had been no information, only that he was at Cook County Hospital. Warburton was unable to tell them more. 

The skin on Jennifer’s face looked stretched across those high cheekbones as she stared at the picture. No burns, no marks, nothing, just… “Why does he have a tube down his throat?” But Warburton had been unable to answer her question. Instead, he merely summoned one of his assistants to bring them down to the car he’d arranged to take them to the hospital. The car was parked in the back, to avoid the media encamped at the airport entrance. 

“How long will it take to get there?” Brian asked the driver as they slid into the back seat. 

“Twenty minutes, sir.” The driver pulled away from the curb, into the back road leading away from the airport. Finally, they were moving toward something, no more sitting on their asses, helplessly static. “Usually it’s a longer trip, but I’m going to go real fast for you. I’m sure any police stopping us will just give us an escort.” 

Brian nodded. Jennifer, who had started to shake, leaned into him, her head bowing into his chest. “He’s alive, thank god…” 

Brian put an arm around her back, somewhat awkwardly, and let her cry as she allowed her fear to pour out. She’d have to pull together before they reached the hospital. It wasn’t over yet.

He watched the highway slip by, nothing to see, nothing to say. He looked down at Jennifer’s head. She had stopped crying, but hadn’t pulled away; she wasn’t looking up, she was just resting there. He knew how she felt: like him, drained, as if his legs wouldn’t support him when it was time to exit the car. Who knew what they’d be walking into. But immobility, the desire to just sink into this seat and never move again, or even worse and of course completely out of the question, the desire to tell the driver to just keep driving, to never have to face what might be waiting for them, that wasn’t acceptable either; he knew he had to do this. He had to know. But still, the impulse to flee… Justin may be alive, but they still knew nothing. Wasn’t that better, sometimes? Brian stared out the window, glad Jennifer wasn’t watching their car as it raced through the traffic, cutting too close to the front bumper of an SUV and into the right lane, zooming around the idiot in the high speed lane who wasn’t moving past the slower lanes quickly enough. Damn, this driver was good. Brian was going to remember this guy, next time he was in Chicago. 

He wondered how long they would have to wait to find out if Justin would wake up. When, to find out WHEN he would wake up. Except for that tube to aid breathing... He was fine. He looked fine, from the picture. Unmarked, but unconscious. Had Justin been knocked unconscious? Oh, no, was his old head injury compounding whatever he had suffered this time? 

“Do you want me to find the news on the radio?” the driver asked, coming right up to the bumper of another car that was driving too slow for him. 

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jennifer’s breathing had evened out, and Brian hoped she might be sleeping. Or at least resting. Hearing details about the disaster, though, was definitely not such a hot idea. Hearing the numbers, the percentage of the dead, that was best kept for later. After they knew Justin was fine. And Justin was fine, he repeated in his head. Please, god. Let him be fine. 

The car in front of theirs finally moved aside, tired of the big car on its bumper, flicking its high beams on and off to get it to move. Their driver took his hand away from the sound system at Brian’s last words. With both hands on the steering wheel, he hit the gas, and the car surged forward. 

Brian remembered that long ago three day wait at another hospital. It hadn’t really been that long ago, had it? Watching the news obsessively for some hint of what-the-fuck; the reports of Hobbes’s hospitalization (the system might screw them later, but the emergency personnel were fairly sensitive to their needs on that first night). He remembered the strain on Jennifer’s face then, and he sure as hell remembered the angry, baffled stare every time she looked at him. Michael would return her glare when he thought Brian wasn’t looking. He hadn’t cared in those three days, hadn’t cared what anyone thought. He had been totally focused to the exclusion of all else on those words, the same one in his head now: Please, god. Please.

That night, the news had distracted him from considering everyone else’s pain and fear, the worried looks he hadn’t been able to face. The fact that he was only able to receive his information through Michael, or more specifically through Debbie after she had spoken to Jennifer who was refusing to speak to Brian at all. The doctors would pull Jennifer aside, and then Brian would receive the facts third-hand after Jennifer decided he’d suffered enough and tersely whispered reports to Debbie to communicate to Michael who relayed his own version of events to Brian – never, ever enough information, just words like seizures, and brain swelling, operations and drug-induced coma, “he might not wake up.” Brian had been unable to question the medical professionals himself, to ask any questions, to say anything at all, helpless to do anything with his despair. So it had turned inward, castigating him. And here he was, re-approaching that hell.

But things were different now. Maybe because he had not been ultimately responsible for 512, though certainly he had plenty to blame himself for this time: allowing Justin to get to the airport and on a plane to LA on his own, refusing to bend and call him, to apologize without apologizing, to let Justin know Brian was not happy with how things had been left. Yes, he had been far more worried about that steely smooth helmet around his heart that shielded him from the blows that just might make their way in, gotta make sure that’s in place, all the time, every second, no one’s getting past to the raw insides. Everything must be shut out. 

Instead, he had been the one shut out, and hadn’t that been the problem, really? Brian could only admit to himself now that he was long past the experience, that his cynical and ultimately justified prediction of the verdict more or less exonerating that homophobic would-be killer was his way of feeling in control. It had been his way of pretending that that the post-crisis distance between him and Justin had been his choice, that Brian was in control of his relationship to the insanity unfolding around him. That he preferred to remain at arm’s length, on the outside, looking in. And in the meantime, in the privacy of his loft, he obsessively consumed the news and watched for reports of Hobbes’ indictment, the charges, the reactions of the media, telling himself he needed to stay informed when the only information he cared about was kept from him, filtered through Jennifer’s careful editing of what she wanted him to know. And she had probably calculated he receive only the most painful and raw information: seizures, operations, blood loss…. Obsessive news watching took the place of Brian’s involvement in Justin’s care. It had been his way of pretending that enforced distance was his own choice, that he was in control of where he had placed himself in relation to these events: that is, at arm’s length, on the outside, looking in. He did his penance at night, physically recreating a position he had been placed in by others, separated from Justin’s coma-ridden recuperation by a sheet of glass. Telling himself it was where he belonged, that this was for the best, when in reality, right before this had happened, only seconds before that horrifying head cracking that echoed through the parking garage, at a moment when more than bone was crushed, Brian had been thinking that maybe, just maybe, he might move in closer to this boy with the beautiful smile, just toward him, not anything else, no. Just closer. Maybe. And then it was too late; the beautiful smile was gone. When had he seen it, really seen it, since? 

Was he still metaphorically letting other people dictate his relationship with Justin, while pretending the enforced distance was his own choice? 

Jennifer sat up slowly, passing her hands over her cheeks and wiping away a damp trail of tears. “Are we there yet?” she asked. 

Everything was so different this time. Jennifer had not even tried to assume control when she walked into Liberty’s waiting room; she had just handed management over to Brian: the contact with Warburton, the approach to the airline personnel to find out if any more news had come in, the handling of those awful pictures. How things had changed, he thought. When Jennifer asked him, “How are you doing?” he’d been able to honestly answer, “About as well as you.” 

But had he changed enough? Things were different this time, and there was no way he was going anywhere once he’d found his partner, not this time – not that he thought Jennifer was going to tell him to go home, that there was nothing he could do. Or, more specifically, it was plain impossible that Debbie would tell him that Jennifer wanted him to leave, that it was better Justin not see him. Nope, not this time, there would be no fighting past the media camped out at the entrance to the hospital, no almost punching that camera man who got in his way, no rude and unbelievable questions shouted at him, “Mr. Kinney, did you have a relationship with Chris Hobbes?” “Mr. Kinney, do you blame yourself for this?” “Mr. Kinney, is Justin dead?” “Brian, do you blame yourself?” 

Not this time.

Instead of all that, this time there was Jennifer’s face filled with concern, not just for Justin, but for him as well. A support center that took for granted his place in Justin’s life without comment. The media kept at bay. And a silent and supportive regard from other people, a tacit understanding and sympathy that didn’t terrify him, even though that support had been moved into place without his permission. There it was at his back, not just telling him but enacting a solidarity so that Brian didn’t have to stand alone. People had quietly assumed that he was already part of something bigger than just himself, no longer the odd man out, looking in. He was part of a bigger reality, it was him and Justin, husbanded. What happened to Justin happened to Brian. Everyone seemed to have just accepted that before Brian really understood the full implications himself, and they treated him with the very care he had been terrified of, and lifted a control he thought he needed to keep to himself, that was only the illusion of a control he didn’t really have at all. And thank God it had been taken from him. He could now focus instead on the more important things - namely, being there when Justin needed him, keeping his own shit together so he could be there when his lover woke up. When, when he woke up. Being there for Justin, only for that, keeping his focus where it belonged, and everyone else taking care of the bullshit that just didn’t matter in the face of Justin’s need of him now. Those same forces that had kept him away, last time, now turned to help him through. 

It was more than relief, that external support; it was a necessary part of not losing his mind through this whole endless day. He did not realize until the support was placed under him that the security it offered was possible, and how vital it turned out to be. And he knew that he could never summon it on his own, because he was the man who would take care of everything, all the time, all by himself. This was something he needed more than anything else, and he hadn’t realized it until he stood on the solid ground of a mobilized social support, placed there without his even asking. 

Was that what Justin had been trying to show him, all along, with his relentless “I’m killing you with kindness” tactics, showing Brian that he could have the supporting groundwork of a caring community under him, ready to move into place when, not if, when life shit on you? Killing him, indeed. Brian wasn’t the same person he had been that night he’d emerged from Babylon to see the beautiful boy walking toward him, leaning under that street lamp so the light illuminated his blonde hair in a halo. Not those beautiful angels from the watered down children’s stories, not the cherubs. Gabriel, or maybe Michael, well, one of the seraphim, that’s how the memory of Justin in that moment under the light struck him - the mighty Angel who had led the battle against Satan and his minions for control of heaven. Disguised as an annoying little shit of course. But still. 

Good lord, Kinney, he grimaced to himself, when you start pulling out the symbolism, you really go way out on the extremes, don’t you? Just like everything else. No wonder you’re so competent as an advertiser for our good ol’ mass produced consumer industry. One cliché fits all. Let’s not turn this into another wild fantasy, he told himself. Justin was real, and too special for that good versus evil bullshit. The kid was no angel; Justin was his lover, pulling him onto more solid ground, despite all of Brian’s self-destructive resistance. Justin pulled him more to the civilized center, away from his natural instinct to careen wildly away, the wild boy going off. But life, and all its shit, can’t really be avoided that way, can it? Just defamiliarized. The pain waited for the eventual return of the prodigal son. We take it with us. You can run… More clichés. 

But maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doomed to choosing between a life as either social pariah or normative clichéd existence. Maybe there was a way to mediate between them. If Justin was okay. All the answers seemed to lie in that direction, didn’t they, and that’s where he was going. 

And Justin was fine. He was fine. Please god…

His phone rang. Bemused for a moment at the sound, he took a moment to recognize what it meant. The ring was not the special tone he had for each of his speed dial numbers, but a generic ring that indicated unfamiliar calls. He pulled the phone out of his coat, and looked at the display. The number was completely unfamiliar, and his heart rate pick up. He’d been ignoring calls from the usual suspects: Lindsay, Michael, Michael, Michael again. Ted should be managing those, and he didn’t have time or the emotional energy for them right now. But the incoming call did not indicate a Pittsburgh area code, nor a Chicago one for that matter. Better safe, today of all days, he reasoned, and flipped the phone open to answer, “Hello?” Jennifer watched intently, her chest stilling as her breath caught and held.

“Brian! Where are you! I’m a father! Where have you been, you asshole?”

“Michael… You’re not using your own phone.”

“Yeah, I’m using one of Melanie’s friend’s phone who’s down from Ohio, did you hear me, I’m a father! You wouldn’t believe it, and by the way, you should be here, this reminded me so much of when Gus was born…”

“Michael…”

“I mean, even happening after midnight and all the munchers everywhere…”

“Michael!”

“What? Aren’t you going to say congratulations at least? You were right about one thing, tick tick tick, god, I think I’m…” Brian took the phone away from his ear, afraid of what he might say next. He took a deep breath, and tried to gather himself to deal with this without destroying Mikey’s psyche in one sentence. This is why he’d been avoiding him. 

Jennifer rolled her eyes and held out her hand, crooking her forefinger and motioning for him to hand the phone over. Brian dumped the thing in her slim palm. She lifted it to her ear, her voice smooth and controlled. “Michael, it’s Jennifer Taylor.”

Pause. “That’s wonderful, Michael, Brian offers his congratulations, and of course, so do I…”

Another long, long pause. Jennifer closed her eyes. 

“Yes, Michael, I’m sure you’re always there for each other, but…”

Pause.

“We’ll be there in about five minutes,” the driver chimed in from the front of the car. 

Jennifer glanced at the driver, and nodded to Brian that she’d heard. “I’m sorry, Michael, wait a second, you see… Michael, shut the fuck up.”

Whoa. Brian thought he saw even the driver’s eyes widen in the rear-view mirror. Didn’t expect that from the little woman. 

“We’re both very happy for you, we think it’s wonderful, but Brian can’t talk to you right now because Justin was on board flight 512, did you hear about the plane that crashed this morning? …Yes, *that* airplane crash.” As opposed to all the other plane crashes this morning; Brian could just imagine what Michael had said to prompt the dryness in Jennifer’s voice. He doubted Michael even heard her wry tone almost crackling with impatience held at bay, but Brian was treated to the full eye roll illustrating what lay beneath the considerate words on her smooth surface. 

“Of course, he didn’t want to speak with you until we knew Justin was okay. He’s alive, we’ve just learned, and, oh… we’re pulling up to the hospital. We’ll call later.” And she snapped the phone closed before handing it back to the man at her side. 

Brian looked out the window. The car was moving onto a ramp leading off the highway; the hospital was nowhere in sight. He looked back at Jennifer. 

She smiled, barely. “You just have to know how to handle people, Brian,” she said.

“You officially scare me.” 

“Comes with the job, the mother-in-law handbook, rule number 52, ‘intimidation.’ Includes the sub-clause that says sons-in-law should make sure they’re on mom’s good side at all times.” 

Brian’s eyes widened as he stared, impressed. Two men down in two minutes. He almost hoped the driver’s time estimate would be off, to see how she’d take him down. 

Luckily, the driver seemed to know his city. “We’re here,” he informed them, turning down a side street, and then pulling up to the hospital’s emergency room entrance.

When they exited the car, a young woman was waiting for them. “Mr. Kinney? Mrs. Taylor? I’m Ellie Rodriguez, with the hospital.”

 

V

“I’m Ellie Rodriguez, with the hospital. Justin’s going to be fine.”

He wasn’t sure he heard her at first, the news was so unexpected. His memory had steeled him for much, much worse, flashing back to the last time Justin had been in a hospital. And then, just like that. Justin’s going to be fine. 

If he wasn’t quite taking in what he had just heard, Ellie’s smile backed it up, just an upturn of the lips, but it seemed radiant to him, all the more brilliant for the fact that he had been completely taken by surprise. He felt a great weight roll off of his stomach and he drew in a deep breath of relief. Jennifer let out a cry. “Oh, thank god.” Ellie continued, “I can only begin to imagine how great it must be to hear that, I’m so happy just to be able to tell you.”

Brian’s shoulders relaxed, and, unable to take in anything but the sudden relief sweeping through him, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw Jennifer shaking, his own expression surely mirrored in her features as they exchanged a glance, travelers at the end of a harrowing journey. “Can we see him?” she asked.

“Yes, of course…” Ellie turned and walked into the emergency room. 

Brian caught up to her. “What’s the breathing tube all about? What happened?”

“I’ll let the doctor tell you, I really don’t have the details.” That was a lie, Brian thought, but he held his tongue as Ellie led them quickly down the bright corridor, to a room toward the back of the ER. He would find out soon enough. They passed a woman weeping loudly, a young man standing to the side, staring at her helplessly, glancing from her to the slatted window behind him. A few people leaned against walls, the rigid pain of waiting apparent in their very stances. Then Ellie opened a door to the right and led them into a small room with two beds. A little girl lay back against the first bed’s headboard. Her head was turned toward Justin, who lay in the bed against the far wall. He was unconscious and very pale. The breathing tube remained down his throat. The bedsheet was pulled to his waist, revealing an awful hospital gown, but he seemed undamaged: no burns, no major gashes. Jennifer crossed the space quickly with Brian a step behind. “I’ll go get the doctor,” Ellie said, stepping out. 

Brian positioned himself over his partner. His eyes greedily took in the rise and fall of Justin’s chest, the movement of the eyes behind closed lids. Justin’s face was ashen and drawn. Brian looked up and met Jennifer’s gaze. She groped her way over to the chair in the corner, and fell into it. 

“Oh my gosh, you’re Rage.” 

At first he thought the voice coming from behind him was a fucked up, stress-induced fantasy; it seemed so out of context. He turned around to see a skinny teenage girl sitting in a chair closer to the door, next to the little girl’s bed.

“Brian, actually.”

“Yeah, but you’re Rage, right? His,” she gestured toward Justin, “comic hero guy. So he really is JT!” Her voice was coming out in a fit of hoarse whispers and scratchy resonances as she spoke. 

Brian nodded at her. “Were you on the plane?”

“In the seat next to him. I’m Leah.” Leah stood, walked around the first bed, and looked up at Brian. That explained her voice’s raspiness: smoke inhalation. She looked fine. Just like Justin, fine. Only he was unconscious. Why? 

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry, it’s terrible what you went through. How are you doing now?” Jennifer asked. Trust her to focus on the girl’s condition, when all Brian wanted to know was what the fuck had happened to Justin. Obviously, the girl was fine. She was standing, wasn’t she? 

“I’m… okay. Well, thanks to him. Justin… right? I just kept calling him JT, and he didn’t correct me. And then… well, we weren’t doing introductions after. He saved my life. Both our lives.” She gestured to the little girl. “A bunch of other people too, they want to thank him. Lots of other people were… not fine. Even some of the ones who got out.” 

“What happened, Leah?” Brian lost patience. If she was going to wear out her voice, she could damn well get to what happened to Justin. 

“Brian…” Jennifer warned. 

Leah sat on the foot of the little girl’s bed, shrugged. “It’s okay. JT can’t tell you, so I guess I can. I don’t really remember the crash, though the other parts, I remember those too good.” She shuddered. “You want to hear this?” She looked over at Jennifer, who glanced at Brian. He nodded. Leah continued. “So the plane went down, and we were all in the position, you know, heads down, bent over, and when we hit… well, I don’t much remember that part, but when we stopped, there was no way to tell where you were in the plane. I mean, who pays attention to the safety lecture?” 

Justin would, Brian thought, looking back at him. Did the eyes look less tightly closed? He couldn’t tell. Leah continued, her voice becoming monotone, as if she were in a trance. “All black smoke and you could hear, but you could really feel the heat from the flames, it was unbearable. You couldn’t barely breath, though, couldn’t see, the smoke was just black, like… just blind three feet in front of you. And I heard people, yelling, this way! This way! Those that weren’t plain screaming, anyway. You couldn’t tell where any of it was coming from, it was crazy and terrifying and I just wanted to sit back down and wait it out, uh, bad idea, right? I have no idea why I was thinking like that, but then Justin grabbed my wrist, and yelled that the emergency exit was two seats in front of ours. And I guess he heard Grace there screaming in her seat, screaming, Daddy! Daddy! And he told me to wait for one second, and he crossed the aisle and I couldn’t really see him for a minute cuz of the smoke. It’s a good thing I stayed put, most of the people who went toward the back… well, I dunno. There was a lot of smoke back that way. The plane had ended up tilted slightly, downwards, they must have thought that way was better. But I think something ignited cuz…” her voice trailed away, and she looked over at Jennifer, who was crying again. “Oh, should I just…” 

“No, keep going. She’s fine,” Brian answered, and glared a warning at Jennifer. 

“So Justin comes back and he had Grace there, and she was like fighting him? I guess she wanted to get back to her dad, but he was having none of it. He’s stronger than he looks! Anyways, he had her in one arm, and I grabbed the back of his shirt, and we got to the emergency exit. He covered her face, because the people in those seats, there was, like, stuff blocking the door, which was why no one was going out that way. Yeah, nobody was moving there…” She stopped, swallowed. “Anyway. I couldn’t breath, the smoke… in like, less than a minute, no more oxygen, just all smoke in the cabin, and you could hear all that snapping fire, and people choking and just screaming. Moaning, you know? just, just… and leaving them there…” She looked up at Brian, her eyes shocky.

“Don’t feel that way,” Brian ordered her. “You were lucky to save yourself.”

“Yeah, I guess so…” But her eyes shifted away. Brian almost laughed at the mulish set to her jaw that told him she’d feel any way she damned well please, and she was unlikely to follow his orders. Instead of saying anything, though, she just shrugged and continued. “So, uh, Justin got me to move this, stuff, that was blocking the door, he insisted the door was there, behind… well…” She shuddered visibly, and Brian wasn’t going to ask her what that “stuff” was, “…he handed me Grace who had gone limp at that point. Man, she’s pretty heavy. He opened the door to the emergency exit and woosh! A rush of air, swear to god the greatest thing I ever breathed in my life, but it was like it drew the fire, and it was just like hell like our minister’s always talking about. So he tells me to jump out first. It was far down, but I didn’t even hesitate, no problem, out I go. Out and on the ground, I almost kissed it, but I was too busy getting up and trying not to run my ass off, because of course now I had to catch Grace. And I hear Justin yelling at people to go this way, and like, a bunch more people jump out, which was good cuz some big guy caught Grace. I prolly woulda dropped her. Finally Justin jumps out right after them. And by that time we’re all running like heck away from the plane. Good thing too cuz it exploded less than a minute later.” She paused, trembling.

“So you were fine. And Justin was fine?”

“Yeah, he was, near as I could tell. We didn’t talk much. Just waiting. People were stopping their cars and handing us water, and they kept staring at us, or watching the plane burn up, but then the emergency people showed up and chased them off and brought us to the hospital.” 

“But, wait, then what happened?” Jennifer asked. “Why is my son unconscious?” 

“I can answer that for you.” A tall, slim man in a doctor’s coat stepped into the room. “I’m Doctor Jones. Mrs. Taylor?” 

Jennifer rose. “Yes, Brian… Mr. Kinney and I were just speaking with Leah. She was telling us what happened during the crash.”

“Oh, yes, we put them all in the same room, mostly so as not to upset Grace. She’s having a bit of trouble keeping her composure when we tried to separate them. She wants to be here when he wakes up. We can speak out in the corridor.” 

“He has to wake up. I have to be here.” The little girl spoke for the first time, and Brian’s brain kicked in as he looked over at her. “Is your mother’s name Mary?” he asked. Jennifer moved toward the door Dr. Jones held open.

Leah answered when Grace kept her mouth shut. “Mrs. Clark you mean? She just left before you came in. Apparently they, uh, found her husband.” Grace looked away and swallowed. 

Brian nodded, and followed Jennifer and the doctor out into the corridor. Once there, he demanded. “So, what happened?” 

“Mr. Kinney, yes? First of all, he’s going to be fine. He’s just under sedation. All he suffered in the crash was some minor smoke inhalation, and no doubt some muscle sprains. We’ll be able to assess those when he’s conscious.”

“But why is he unconscious?” Brian was fast losing patience. 

Dr. Jones’s gaze flickered, and Brian saw a hint of trouble, quickly masked by the man’s professionalism. “Well, the accident scene was very confused. The emergency medical technicians were getting to the worst cases, and it seemed Justin was fine at first, but he started having difficulty breathing. We think a panic reaction probably accounts for the initial level of distress; apparently, between the smoke and the adrenaline, he began hyperventilating.” 

“He’s allergic to a lot; I’m sure even a small amount of smoke triggered his allergies as well,” Jennifer added.

“Yes…” the doctor nodded. “To counteract this, the EMT onsite gave him a sedative and a shot of Roceterol at the scene, it’s a muscle relaxant…”

“With acetaminophen.” Brian added grimly. “He’s allergic to it.” Of course, how would they know? 

“Yes, we figured that out when he arrived at the hospital, mostly because of the rash that developed across his abdomen. Between the smoke inhalation, a probable anxiety reaction, as well as the histamine reaction from his allergy, his throat closed almost all the way.” Jennifer gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Dr. Jones went on, “The EMT’s gave him air on the way over, and we gave him an antihistamine at the hospital, and of course, a tube down his throat to aid breathing. The sedative for the anxiety and muscle strain put him out, but it was only a light sedative, and he should come out of this any time now. We’ll be able to take the tube out when he wakes up.” 

Brian didn’t say a word; he was too pissed off. He just turned on his heel and slammed back into the room, trailed by the other two who continued the conversation behind him. Of all the stupid, stupid things to happen, escaping a disaster only to be felled by human error. Brian moved across the room, ignoring Leah’s startled jump at his loud entrance and grim expression. He pulled the chair up to the side of the bed, and picked up Justin’s hand, the anger leaching from him on contact with the pulse he felt beneath the tender skin, the fragile bones. Justin would hate those words used for him: tender, fragile. But in a sudden crash into the earth... yeah. Delicate as cobwebs, all of us. Justin was intact now, though; he was whole and alive. He was fine, and nothing else mattered. “Come on,” he crooned, “come on, Sunshine, time to wake up. I know how much you like to sleep, but I think you’ve had quite enough now…” 

He hadn’t expected Justin’s eyes to flutter open in response, but they did, and the blue stare gazed up at the ceiling, before they rolled over toward Brian. Justin looked at him, cloudy, confused. Brian smiled. “Hey,” he said. “The doctors say you’re going to be fine.” 

“Oh, thank God,” Jennifer breathed, clutching at Brian’s shoulder. 

Dr. Jones moved to the opposite side of the bed from where Brian sat. Justin turned his eyes toward the doctor, then back to Brian. “Bet you want that tube out of your throat,” Brian said to him. He watched the miniscule nod that answered him. “See, my turn to read your mind. And now, you’re thinking, any idiot could figure out I want a fucking tube out of my throat.” Brian squeezed Justin’s hand again, and the answering grip was almost painful, so strong, as if he would never let go. 

“Hi, Justin,” Dr. Jones said, stepping forward. “I’m Dr. Jones, we met earlier when I inserted the breathing tube. You were having trouble breathing, do you remember?” Justin frowned, then nodded again. “We’re going to take it out now, okay? What I need you to do is take a really deep breath, and exhale when I tell you, okay?” God, if that guy said ‘okay’ again, Brian was going to lose it. “Okay, breath in… good, and exhale.” And with the sound of escaping air, the doctor pulled the tube out of Justin’s throat. Justin started coughing wildly. “Is there water anywhere?” Brian asked, looking around. He would lose it later; right now, he had to take care of his partner. Leah moved to a pitcher on the table next to Grace’s bed, filled up one of the cups as Grace took a straw out of its wrapper. Leah handed the cup of water with its straw to the doctor. Brian helped Justin to sit up, and the doctor handed him the cup of water. Justin eagerly took the straw between his lips and pulled the water into his mouth, gulping at the contents. He let go after emptying half the cup, and sat back against the pillows, two deep breaths, and then a long, rasping exhale. And then he began to breath normally.

“How are you feeling, Justin?” Dr. Jones asked, moving to the end of the bed and picking up the chart that hung there, making a note. He hooked it back into place, and looked back toward his patient.

Justin answered, “Fine, I guess, considering.” His voice was a harsh whisper. “My throat is killing me and my back hurts.” 

“You had an adverse reaction to the shot the EMT gave you on the scene, but the reaction was especially bad because of the state of shock you were in, along with the smoke inhalation. We took care of that with the proper meds. How does your breathing feel now?”

“I can do it, so I guess okay.” He glanced over at Brian. “Where are we?”

Brian continued to stroke the back of his hand, as the doctor answered, “Cook County Hospital. Chicago. Do you remember the plane crash?”

Justin nodded, then closed his eyes. 

“Maybe it’s best we don’t talk about that right now,” Jennifer interjected. “Justin, honey, we came as soon as we could.”

His eyes snapped open and shifted toward his mother. “Mom? And, Brian. When’d you get here?”

“We’ve been in Chicago, for… an hour? Two? What time is it? We just got to the hospital, just now.” 

“I’m glad,” Justin said, turning his gaze back to Brian. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Brian leaned forward and kissed him, feeling his partner’s warm lips sigh into his. And his world, a world that had shattered just that morning, righted itself, and began to fall together again. 

Jones cleared his throat, and Brian pulled back to look defiantly back at the doctor with an eyebrow quirked up. Justin moved Brian’s hand up to his face, rubbing his cheek against the sensitive skin of the long fingers that moved upward, into his hair.

“We’ll check you into the hospital for observation, we want to keep you overnight,” Dr. Jones said, looking unsure of what to do with his hands, and where to look. Brian nastily thought he was probably sorry he didn’t have his chart to play with. 

“No.” Justin said as emphatically as he could, his voice rising to a scratchy gasp that was painful to just listen to. “I want to get the fuck out of here.”

“You need to stay in the hospital, it’s just one night. Just to make sure you’re okay,” Brian reasoned. 

“I want to go home,” Justin insisted. He breathed deeply and blinked. Brian could see he was fighting tears, trying not give into an emotional reaction that was about far more than an overnight stay. “No one can keep me here if I want to go home.” A tiny bead of wetness eked out of the corner of his eye.

Brian ran his thumb up over the spot, clearing away the single escaping drop. “I’ll be here with you. You know we’re going to move you into a private room. I’ll even watch TV with you, all night. Cartoons, if you want. I’ll even watch the Power Sponge Girls. Whatever you want. Okay?” 

“Well…” the doctor began, but Brian glared at him. “We’ll see what we can do. I’ll be back in a little while, and then we’ll get you moved somewhere more comfortable.” Jones nodded, and walked out.

Leah came up to occupy the spot the doctor had just vacated. Grace was standing at her side. “You saved my life,” Leah said. 

“Hey,” Justin said, looking at them. “You guys are okay? Oh, thank god.” 

Grace walked up to his free side, and put her small arms around his right bicep, and squeezed, before leaning in and pecking his cheek with her lips. Then she stepped back, still saying nothing, and slipped her hand in Leah’s.

“I got to meet not only the illustrator of one of my favorite comics, I got to meet Rage himself,” Leah said to Justin with a bare hint of a smile. “Just, you know, if you meet my mom, don’t tell her I read it, okay?”

Justin smiled back. “So you believe me now?”

“Yeah, okay, you really are the artist, sheesh, hell of a way to settle an argument.” She glanced over at Brian, who kept his gaze on Justin, his hand moving across Justin’s neck, into his hair, never still. “Uh… we were only waiting to see if, um, when you were going to wake up. I told Grace’s mom we’d meet her down the hall. She’s talking to some people.” Leah cut her eyes to Grace, not wanting to say too much about the conversation Mary was most likely having about her husband’s corpse. Brian thought Leah had probably heard too much herself. 

“Are you going to be okay, Leah? What are you going to do?” Of course, Jennifer thought of Leah’s welfare. Brian’s brain was somewhere else.

“My mom’s on her way in from California, so she’ll be here soon. I’m okay.” 

“Would you like to stay with us for now?” 

Leah smiled and shook her head. “I gotta look after Grace.” She turned to Grace, who had slipped her hand in the other girl’s. “You ready to go see your mom now, Grace, now you know Justin’s okay?” Grace nodded. They exited, Leah promising to return and say goodbye before she left.

Tactful for that age, Brian thought. Jennifer stood up. “I’m going to go make arrangements for a transfer to a more comfortable room.”

“Private, Jennifer. Find out if a VIP suite is available.”

“Yes, of course.” And she left. 

As soon as the door shut behind Justin’s mother, Brian came up out of the chair to move onto Justin’s bed. Justin turned into the other man, as Brian’s arms came up around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Brian finally allowed himself the deep, shuddering breaths that had been waiting through this whole ordeal, now that there was no one else in the room to see them. Justin held him around the rib cage and squeezed as tightly. He suspected Brian was suppressing an urge to gather Justin as closely as possible, so Justin held on fiercely to try and still the tremors shaking Brian’s body. He pushed back on Brian’s shoulder slightly, wanting to see his face. “I’m glad you were here when I woke up,” Justin said when their eyes met. Brian leaned his head in so that their foreheads touched, their breath sharing the same air. 

“I’m glad… I’m glad you’re okay,” Brian answered.

“I’m sorry,” Justin whispered. Much better, at this distance he could whisper and spare his throat the pain of speaking aloud. His throat felt as though he had eaten glass for breakfast. 

Brian pulled his head back to frown down at the other man. “Sorry? Why are *you* sorry?” 

“That you had to go through this. Again.”

“Oh, Jesus, Justin. This isn’t… I was fine. While you were fighting fire and getting a tube shoved down your throat, I was just fine. And I didn’t *go* through anything. Until I heard or saw anything different, as far as I was concerned, you were the same shit who told me to go to hell three days ago. And I’m always right. I just didn’t have direct evidence. So… it wasn’t like that last time. At all. Besides, sorry’s…”

“Bullshit, yeah, yeah.” Justin smiled slightly. But Brian was right, of course, Justin thought. This trauma was different from the last one. This time he woke up and Brian was there. All the difference in the world. 

“Even after I watched the video of the crash I didn’t think…”

“There’s a video?”

“You don’t want to see it.”

“Well, I don’t have to, I guess. Not yet anyway.” They were quiet again, just holding each other. Justin leaned onto Brian’s shoulder, content to feel his lover’s warm hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. That felt real good; his muscles there were starting to feel like a giant clamp was tightening around them. 

“Justin?”

“Hm.”

“I was pretty… well. Unhappy that I’d let you walk out of my office like you did. And then that I didn’t call you.” 

“Missed the phone sex?”

“Yeah, and the blow job you promised me for a ride to the airport.” 

Justin smiled drowsily. He was starting to zone out. “Justin? Justin!”

“Jesus, Brian, I’m fine, just, that feels really good. My back is killing me.”

“We’ll get you some nice happy drugs, drugs prescribed by a licensed pharmacologist, drugs you’re not allergic to. Then your mom will get you a comfortable, private VIP room…” 

“Or, knowing my day, I’ll end up with the only bed left in the hospital in a ward with four other people.”

“And I’ll raise holy hell until we get what we want.”

“So how many people did you scream at today, getting here?”

Brian smiled, a real smile. “Not many; you’d be proud. I wanted to. I even tried to. But… they were all just trying to help. Jesus, talk about fucked up…” His hand moved up Justin’s back, and his fingers culed into the soft hair at the nape of the young man’s neck. 

Justin felt his grogginess lifting a bit, and he examined the haunted look in Brian’s eyes. “You need to stay with me tonight.” 

Brian nodded. “Yeah, I think you need me to.”

“Yeah.” 

Their heads were moving in toward each other again when Jennifer returned to announce that they’d be moving after Justin had been checked one last time by a nurse. 

“And you’ll stay with me.”

“And I’ll stay with you.”

 

VI

“Holy shit.” Justin’s voice was a reedy thing carried on his breath. The television mounted on the wall played the 11 o’clock local news, featuring the videotape of 512 crashing. Brian had seen it already, of course, so he watched Justin’s face as that lush mouth went slack, and his jaw dropped. Not in a good way. Justin switched over to CNN, hoping that longer pieces devoted to this story might have more information and less sensational imagery, but here, too, the video, the crash, smoke shown rising in the distance, police holding the sensation seekers at bay. 

But then they were back to the news anchors. “Amazing that anyone walked away from this, but of the 188 passengers and 9 crew members, 89 people managed to survive, some, remarkably, with little physical injury,” the anchorwoman said.

“That’s right, Diane,” the anchorman picked up. “And a number of them credit a single voice coming through the darkness. We switch now to Robin Ellis at Cook County Hospital.”

The scene switched to a young woman, her dark brown hair tossing in the wind. She stood in front of the entrance to the hospital, its logo glowing into the dark night. “Thanks, John, I’m here at Cook County Hospital, where many of the victims who survived today’s tragedy are being treated. Reports have come to us from several people who walked away with little more than scratches, having followed the voice of Justin Taylor, one of the several passengers who survived. Apparently, he managed to locate an emergency exit and guided several of the survivors to safety, including a little girl whose father was killed. Earlier today we caught up with one extremely grateful mother, Mary Clark, who lost her husband, and says she owes her daughter’s life to Justin Taylor’s actions.” 

The video showed the front of the hospital in daylight as a somewhat nondescript woman in her early forties held a child to her and spoke to the camera. “All I know is, if that young man hadn’t gone back for Grace, she wouldn’t be here…” A reporter called a question. Mary said, “My husband, Jack…” A tear coursed down her cheek, and her next words came out through choked sobs, “Grace was fine, but she didn’t want to leave her daddy, even though he was… and this young man grabs her out of the seat, and takes her with him to the only exit on the plane that wasn’t burning… he’s an absolute hero, as far as I’m concerned. Excuse me, I’m sorry,” Mary clutched her daughter closer to her body and turned away. 

The next shot showed Leah with an older woman (Brian knew it was her mother, they had been introduced when Leah had stopped in briefly to say goodbye to Justin and exchange email addresses earlier that evening). “We were sitting next to each other in the plane,” Leah described for the news people. “He really kept his head about him. He knew where the emergency door was. I would have gone toward the back, but I know now that would have been a really bad idea…” The camera zoomed into Leah’s hand clasped in her mother’s, the knuckles of both women white from the force of the death grip. 

Finally, Jennifer. 

Justin moaned. “Oh, my God. How’d they know who she is?”

“She probably got caught up in the craziness leaving the front entrance, and they asked her.” He could imagine, the audacity of some of those reporters, shouting at random people, asking who they were, can we talk to you. No consideration for the fact that these people may be going through hell, that they may be in the shock of mourning. “She has no reason to lie about being your mother.” 

The on-screen Jennifer said, “Justin is going to be fine, we appreciate your concern. My son only did what he could, and we all feel terrible, of course, our hearts go out to all those families who were not so fortunate as we are.” There was a question shouted from off camera, that CNN’s mike did not pick up. Her composure in front of an apparent crowd of reporters was impressive. Brian mused that he might use her in a pinch for ad copy. The happy homemaker, making soup for the kids. She’d roll her eyes, but he bet she’d do it. On screen, Jennifer continued, “He had a reaction to the smoke and medication at the scene. But he’s going to be fine.” Another question. “I suppose his doctor can answer that. He needs to rest right now, I’m sure you can understand that. Excuse me.” 

Back to CNN’s Robin Ellis, live in front of the Cook County Hospital, with its glaring neon entrance sign. “While several people still fight for their lives tonight, most who managed to escape the plane in the first three minutes are alive, and those who managed to find the side door, following the voice of one young man yelling through the smoke, are the most fortunate of all. Back to you, John and Diane.”

“Lucky, indeed,” John said. The camera cut to Diane. “Officials still have no real answers as to what caused the crash of flight 512. Despite reports of a bang or some kind of explosion, air traffic controllers received distress calls only reporting loss of control. Sadly, both pilots were lost, and details have yet to be released.”

Justin switched the television back to local news. Apparently while he had been sleeping off the last of his shock through the early evening, a hero narrative had been forming around him. He and Brian were only now becoming aware of it. Jennifer could have warned them, Brian thought, but she probably assumed they could use the peace and quiet before this new craziness descended. She had left to spend the night at the hotel, and would rejoin them in the morning. 

Local news was focusing on the usual shtick; tragedy and triumph, sensation and sentiment, and Justin had become the perfect centerpiece to illustrate the canned narrative of hope in sadness. It was simple to fit the stories from other passengers about Justin’s efforts to get them out of the plane. At least nine people credited him for having saved their lives in the confusion. “I just heard this voice, ‘over here! The exit’s over here! Come on!’ and I followed it,” one shaken middle-aged man told Channel 7 News, responding to the insistent microphone shoved in his face. Far less restrained than the national news networks, local news had dwelled on the story of Grace and her mother, and Justin’s rescue of the child after her father’s grisly death. “If it hadn’t been for that young man, my baby would still be in the plane with her father!” Mary, in full meltdown. 

Brian rolled his eyes. “Her marriage was a joke, she wanted the guy dead. Now she’s weeping over him?”

“Brian!” 

“It’s true.”

Justin stared at him, shocked. “Have some respect, the guy’s dead. And believe me, you do not want to know how.” A fine shudder ripped through him, remembering. “Can you just give the pot-shots at marriage a rest?”

Brian was about to defend himself, to tell Justin that Mary had been sitting next to him on the plane ride from Pittsburg and he had heard these words straight from her, but Justin looked grimly back at the television, where they were showing the video of the plane crashing again, and Brian decided it was best not to argue. 

Soon Justin tiredly requested Brian turn off the television, and they sat contemplating this new information in the silence that followed. Justin looked over at Brian. “You should have gone to the hotel with Mom. This bed is hardly big enough for both of us.” 

“The couch in the sitting room pulls out. Nice, huh? Besides, you mean *you* wouldn’t be comfortable with me smashed in there.”

“Brian Kinney, on a pull-out bed, who’d a thunk. You really don’t have to do that when there are king-sized beds at the Marriot.”

“But you want me to stay.”

“I was feeling… shaky when I woke up. But I’m a big boy, I can handle a night in the hospital by myself. You’ll be happier at a hotel.”

Brian bit his lip, put the remote down on the table next to the bed, and got out of the chair. He sat down next to Justin’s hip. “No, I wouldn’t. I want to stay here.” He brushed the hair that was falling across Justin’s forehead back, and dropped his hand down to his neck. Justin moved slightly to accommodate Brian, so he wouldn’t slide off the narrow mattress, and grimaced with the sudden demand on his back muscles.

“You okay?” Brian asked. Justin nodded, but Brian wasn’t buying it. “I know those muscle relaxants aren’t cutting it – you wince every time you shift positions. You should take the Oxycontin they offered.”

“No.” 

“It’ll make you feel better.”

“It’ll make me feel too good. I won’t want to stop.” 

“You were just in a national tragedy, might as well get a good high out of it.”

“Do you have to make a fucking joke out of everything?” Justin bit back.

Brian stared down at him and did not reply. Justin tried to sit up higher against the pillows at his back, but it proved too much of an effort. He bit his lips to stop the moan of pain that escaped nonetheless, and he couldn’t stop the slight gasp that rode hard on its heels. Brian stood up, and gently helped him to shift forward, moving him so the pressure was off his back. “Every time I want to get mad at you, you do something nice like this,” Justin complained. 

Brian went back to the chair, but moved it closer to the bed. “You okay?” he asked. “Do you want anything?”

“Do I want anything.” Justin said. Not a question. He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, letting his hands rest there so they covered his face. Only his mouth was visible. “I want another life. Why do these things happen to me?”

“It’s just shit luck. A really, really bad day.” 

“It isn’t the plane crash. Well, it is, but it isn’t *just* the plane crash, it’s more than that, it’s my whole fucking life.” He pressed the bottoms of his hands to his eyes, and then dropped his hands in his lap. He looked at Brian squarely, with a hint of defiance, but something in the look made Brian uneasy, almost afraid of what Justin was about to say. “I know, I know, I’m just feeling sorry for myself. And self-pity makes your dick soft.”

Brian said, mildly, “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s ALWAYS about you!” Justin burst out. He lifted his hands to his face again, scrubbed the pads of his fingertips over his eyes, his cheeks, across his jaw, then placed each hand on the opposite shoulder and held onto himself with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands resting on the opposite shoulders. “I don’t… oh, fuck, Brian, I don’t want to take this out on you.” 

“Well, fuck, if this isn’t about me, then don’t fucking take it out on me, just let it out. You obviously need to.” Obviously he had needed to for a while, but Brian kept that comment to himself. “So? this isn’t about the plane crash, but…” Brian prompted.

Justin let go of himself and sagged back against the pillow. “All this shit that happens to me… it’s not that I wonder why it happens, I mean, life sucks, it never turns out the way we think it’s supposed to. Maybe I’ve gotten more than my share of experiences to teach me that, but when is it going to end? I’m so fucking tired, just, so, so tired. I’m 20 years old and I’m fucking exhausted. People look at me, and they see this, what? This kid who’s been through all this shit, and look how well he’s handling all this, isn’t that fucking fantastic, isn’t he just fucking fantastic, isn’t he just a fucking hero, when inside, it feels like I’m cracking into pieces. But I can’t show anyone that, I gotta show them what they want to see, even you. Especially you.” He resolutely looked away from Brian toward the far wall. “Everyone wants to think I’m okay, but I’m not, I’m not okay. And trying to cover it up only makes it more clear how fucked up I am. I’m not a fucking hero. My life sucks, I’m not handling it well at all. It always feels like everything is falling apart. And I can’t do anything about it.” Finally he turned his head and looked squarely at Brian. “I used to think, if you loved me, you’d be able to fix this, but that was childish, nobody can fix other people’s problems. Even if you did love me, what could you do? You couldn’t do any more than you do already, that’s why I agree with you. That’s why I nod along, and say that yeah, it just doesn’t matter anymore, how you feel, how I feel. Life is what it is whether you suck it up or not. I get the idea, but so what? It doesn’t really help with how fucked up I am. I just don’t care, and that feels like a huge piece of who I am is just… gone. Gone, with nothing replacing it, just this big hole inside. And I have no idea what I’m left with, but I feel like what’s left isn’t strong enough to hold me up, and I’ve been crumbling inside for just forever, and nobody can know, because even if they did, what could they do?” Justin moved his legs up into his chest, carefully, and rested his head on his knees, wincing but determined to curl into himself. “I am so far from being a fucking hero, I’m just… tired. Just dead tired of having to deal with all this shit, all the time, and getting nowhere. I feel like I’ve lost myself, and instead of being able to deal with that, I have to continually fight just to stay intact, and not let anybody know that I’m…” He shook his head, unable to finish. Maybe there was no finish. 

Brian had no idea what to say, so he just studied the young man before him. He wasn’t going to tell Justin how much of a relief it was to hear the rush of words. Justin’s silence since their reunion had worried him, but it was a nagging worry, something Brian couldn’t address directly. There had been too drastic a change in Justin’s personality, a dampening of spirit that had not boded well. Finally, after watching Justin breath deeply a few times, Brian asked, “You’ve heard of the Apocalypse, right?”

Justin turned his head, face toward him. “I’m an artist, of course I’ve heard of the Apocalypse.” 

“Brat.” Brian smiled, then continued. “People always dwell on the fire, and the destruction, and the death, right?”

Justin thought of a painting entitled “The Apocalypse,” depicting a scourging of the earth, barren waste, destruction, pain. “Sure,” he said. “All the highlights.” He let go of his legs, and slowly straightening them, wincing all the while. 

Brian snorted. “Yeah, all the highlights, all the exciting and scary parts. They don’t really talk about the main point, that out of all that destruction, the world is recreated, a better, more perfect world emerges after. When you’re in the middle of hell, it’s impossible to see the promise of something better that’s coming.” 

“But that’s only a story.”

“No, it’s a myth that’s been rooted into the culture so we understand, without any reason to believe, that that’s how these things work, so that belief in a better world will get you through the hell we go through to get to the other side.”

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” 

“Good one.”

“Actually, it’s Churchill’s good one. You’re no Churchill, Brian.”

“You sure about that?” 

For a moment, the two smiled at each other, but then Justin twisted his lips and returned to the heart of the discussion. “So basically you’re telling me, I just have to have faith?”

Brian just stared back at him, acquiescing to his partner’s interpretation of his point.

“You. Are telling me. To have faith for no reason? You?”

“If I didn’t just believe, for no good reason,” Brian answered, very quietly, “that you would walk out of that fireball you were in this morning, I would have lost my fucking mind.” They stared at each other for a moment, each considering the uncertain landscape of this conversation. Brian broke the quiet first. “It’ll get better, Justin. I can’t do anything to help you through this, but I can listen, well, I can try. If you need to deal with this, just deal with it. Anyway that works for you, including telling me to fuck off if I get pissy, do it.” 

“I do that anyway,” Justin retorted. And then one side of his mouth lifted, slightly. 

Brian smile back. Maybe it was just the relief at being able to say anything at all to Justin, but the words coming out of his mouth… Huh. It didn’t feel like bullshit in context, though he was glad no one else was around to hear him talk this way. “And as for your not being a hero…” He stood up from the chair and moved back to sit on the bed again. He just could not stay away, even though he knew Justin needed to rest; he needed his space. Brian placed his long forefinger under Justin’s chin, and raised his face so the blue eyes looked up into his. “Real heroes aren’t like Rage. They’re just sad shits who do the best they can when they find themselves in hell. They don’t always get in the paper, either. And they usually fall apart afterwards.”

“Do you think I’m just… freaking out because of the stress?” Justin twisted his head away.

“No,” Brian replied, moving his hand to Justin’s cheek, pulling his gaze back. “Well, maybe a little. Understandably.” He leaned in, kissed Justin lightly. God, he wished Justin weren’t so sore, some physical contact might be just the thing for both of them right now. Instead… “You should try to get some sleep. Here. Scoot back, you should lie down. I’m gonna go get an orderly to help me pull out my bed.” 

“You can just buzz a nurse.”

“Nah, I want to get some water from the machine, too. Lie down, I’ll be right back.” 

***

Brian walked down the hall toward the soda machine near the elevators. It stocked Aquafina for water. Brian did not drink Aquafina. But it felt good to stretch his legs. And he needed a break after the intensity of that discussion. Fuck, after the intensity of the whole damn day. He had suspected something had been bothering Justin for a while, so it was probably best to have gotten it out in the open. Even if the problem just sat there, unsolvable. But still… having to just listen and not work the issue wasn’t his way. He felt that urge to flee, not forever, just… He just needed a little space here. He’d be fine in a minute, once he’d caught his breath. 

He studied the vending machine, feeling at his pockets for change. He didn’t really want anything, but he knew he should get a bottle of some crap to take back. Justin had enough to think about without wondering if Brian’s excuse to get something to drink was just an excuse to leave the room, to leave him. And of course it was. But with the way Justin’s mind was working, he might jump from “leaving the room” to Leaving Forever. And that was the last thing Justin needed right now. He had enough to deal with. Brian gave himself ten minutes, and two tasks, water bottle, nurse. Easy, he could do this. One task at a time. First, water.

“Hey, Brian.” 

Brian turned around, a frown on his face. A woman in jeans and a black jacket, wearing red strappy Ferragamo sandals with four-inch heels stood behind him. 

“Betsy Feinstein,” Brian smirked the expression slipping easily into place. “The media descends. How’d you get in here?”

Betsy shrugged. “I have my ways. How’s Justin doing?”

“How do you think?”

“I assume you’ve been watching the news?”

Brian nodded, and turned back to the vending machine. He pretended to study the soda selections. Maybe he could get points if he brought Justin some of that sugary shit he loved so much. “Some. You got a buck?” he asked Betsy. Make the press work for him. 

She handed him a dollar, and he took a quarter out of his pocket, fed both into the machine and punched the button for a bottle of ginger-ale. It was a good compromise; he and Justin could split it. He could make an exception, just for tonight. Screw the Aquafina anyway. 

He wondered if he was going to have to call security on Betsy.

“How about setting up an interview for me, Brian?”

The soda bottle fell, and he reached into the dispenser to grab it. “He’s not exactly in shape for that.” 

“How about as soon as he is?”

Brian laughed in disbelief and straightened to face her. He had expected more from this particular reporter, though there was no reason he should. Still, when the media descended immediately after the prom incident, Betsy had been one of the few reporters who had not shouted insulting demands while staking out the hospital entrance, the parking garage, even the bathroom on one horrendous occasion. Instead, she’d sought him out to speak to him personally, tracking him down to the coffee shop just around the corner from the hospital to ask how he, Brian, was doing, and she did not push for him to talk. She never asked the question that made Brian want to kill: “How do you feel about what happened?” How the fuck do you think I feel? had been Brian’s standard response. How would you feel? And Betsy had politely backed off when Brian had asked her to (well, he’d told her to “fuck off,” but whatever). More importantly for Brian, her stories were not horrendous exploitation bits, but fairly well researched and balanced studies of the St. James culture, homophobia in general, the investigation, and the people involved in the case itself. Her articles hadn’t immediately cast Brian as a villain, or Justin as a provocateur, or Hobbes as the stupid jock who simply expressed his justified feelings inappropriately, as so many others had. Instead, she had written about all of them in a fairly balanced way, with their strengths and flaws. Her pieces were strong because they were about human being, not cartoon characters. 

Betsy pressed, “Brian, you haven’t been outside this little medical bubble, but there’s a huge clamor for Justin’s story. It’s big news. The national talk shows are already rumbling. Larry King. Even Oprah. And it’s going to get bigger when they do some research and find the last big new story concerning this kid. When they turn up you.” 

Brian violently twisted the top off the soda bottle, took a long swallow and grimaced as the fizz hit his tongue. Yuck. He stared at Betsy and said nothing. 

She switched tactics, “I can understand why he wouldn’t want to talk. And, trust me, I get why you don’t want him to.” She held up a hand when Brian seemed ready to reply. “But this isn’t going to go away if you just ignore it, you know that. He’ll be hounded. If you let one reporter do an interview, we can release it to the AP and everyone else will be able to draw on it for their stories, so there’ll be less demands on him.” We. We can release it. Damn, she was good. “You’ve read my work, you know my work is fair. I think I’m a good choice. I think you will agree, when you think about it. You should think about it, Brian; you know how fast storylines come together. You need to get on top of this.” 

Brian turned away, his lips twisting. He knew he’d regret having sent her that email, telling her he’d appreciated her writing about St. James and Justin’s bashing. Off the record, of course. Oh well, fuck, he’d been really drunk. And feeling really sorry for himself – yeah, yeah, so file a lawsuit, it happened. Sadly enough, a couple of brief exchanges with her in another hospital’s haunts had felt like warmer human contact than he’d had that whole month. 

Betsy saw her advantage here, and she pressed it. “There’s a better chance, if he gives an interview, that he won’t be hounded from now until the story dies. And it’s not going to die anytime soon, this story is huge; his story is, like, the only good news in a year of terrorism, corporate scandal, and now this plane crash with over a hundred dead and counting. A hero story when the public is desperate for one.” She paused, then added softly, “And, when the rest of them get a hold of the information you gave to the ticket agent when you flew out of Pittsburgh about your relationship status…”

“We’re not married,” Brian said. He knew to keep his mouth shut after he said this. He liked Betsy, he liked her work, but that didn’t mean he trusted her at all. 

“No, but think of the feeding frenzy for a story involving gruesome death, heroes, and gay marriage? All hot topics on their own, but all in one? I’m just saying, Brian, this story’s got the potential to be a monster. You of all people understand the wisdom of trying to control it early on, maybe even prevent it from getting out of control. I’m just offering my services in helping you do that.” 

Damn, he knew he liked her for a reason. She was good. “So you’re here asking for an interview out of the kindness of your heart.” The sarcasm warmed him like his favorite cashmere sweater on a cold winter night. 

Betsy ignored the jibe. “You know as well as I do that if he refuses to talk to anyone, some of those vultures out there will be wondering what he has to hide, and they’ll go digging. And a lot of them are insensitive hacks. I hate seeing good people slaughtered in the press. Besides, you know I like you guys already. I’ll put a good spin on your story. You don’t have to take my word, just re-read my coverage of the Hobbes incident.”

“With that idealistic attitude toward your profession, Betsy, you’re completely doomed.” 

“So you’ve told me! But I’m just fine,” the woman laughed. “I live fairly easily with my choices, and I know I’m working against the worst of my field, and that’s the important thing.” She grew serious. “Just think about it, would you?”

“I’ll pass the idea by Justin. It’s up to him. But here’s the deal. If he agrees, IF he agrees, I’m in the room while you talk to him. Just you, no one else. And if I say a question’s off limits, it’s off limits. No pursuit. If you push, the interview ends right then. IF we decide to do this.”

“I can live with that.” She reached the pocket of her jacket, pulled out a card. “My cell number’s on the back, call me when you decide.” 

Brian stopped by the front desk, and spoke briefly with the nurse. When he got back to Justin’s room, he was pleased to hear a light snoring coming from the bed. He turned the TV in the sitting room on to CNN, and began flipping through the channels to check out the general tone in reporting the story. He discovered fairly quickly that Betsy was right; Justin was becoming a focus. How large of a focus remained to be seen. The press hadn’t dug up the story from two years ago, but Brian knew it was only a matter of time. Betsy was right; they had to get on top of this. 

 

VII

The next morning, Justin was watching the Today show. Katie Couric had just finished interviewing Mary, Grace by her side. Brian hated the Today show. They always asked about people’s feelings. “Gee, you just won a kajillion dollar lottery! How do you feel?” “You just won an Oscar! How do you feel?” “Your daughter was the latest victim of a serial killer! How do you feel?” That was not news! What are we learning here? That people react exactly as we expect them to? 

Justin had always liked morning television. He said he liked to be reminded that there were real people behind the headlines. 

This morning it was a different matter. “I hate this show,” Justin declared, after watching a weepy Mary, and hearing his own name mentioned yet again. 

Brian smirked. “A little different when it’s personal, huh?”

Justin shot him a look. He couldn’t quite pull off a glare; it was too early, and he was still half asleep. The nurse had just been through for the 7 o’clock check of his temperature and blood pressure, and Justin had grumbled his way into the bathroom immediately after her departure, groaning, his hands on his lower back. Brian had been awake for an hour, and had wandered around enough to know that a) the press was still camped outside and b) there was no Starbucks in the hospital’s immediate vicinity. He ended up picking up the crappy coffee from the cafeteria. 

Brian stared at Justin, watching his attempt to glare with those sleepy eyes, his lips slack with the sleep he had not yet shaken off. 

“What?” As grumpy as an exhausted puppy. 

“You look hot in a hospital gown,” Brian practically purred, as he stood up to cross the room to Justin’s bed.

“Brian…” 

Brian reached the bed, ran his hand through Justin’s messy hair, before leaning down to kiss him, gently at first, then more forcefully, feeling the soft resistance of Justin’s mouth, probing the perfect lips open with his tongue, to lightly stroke Justin’s tongue, then licking at the roof of Justin’s mouth. Justin didn’t fight this much, or even at all; after a moment, his own tongue moved up to stroke against the bottom of Brian’s. Brian took advantage of the distraction to move his hand under the hem of the hospital gown, on its way upward. 

Justin broke away, “Brian…”

“Hmm?” Brian turned his head, and was watching the leg as it was unveiled, knee, lower thigh, upper thigh…

“Brian, you can’t.”

Can’t. There was that word. Huh. “You’re hard,” Brian answered, moving from the inside of Justin’s thigh, brushing fingers against his balls, palming them, weighing, considering. Justin’s dick jumped and got harder. “Brian…” That didn’t sound like a protest to Brian. 

“Hmm?” His fingers moved lightly upward, thumb pad catching the bead of liquid at the tip, rubbing in a circular motion in ever widening sweeps. Brian shifted away to watch what his hand was up to, as if it were not under his control. Then he leaned down, and began licking, starting at the top, moving downward, then back up. Bare touches of the tongue, almost dry, not quite. Teasing. Catching the next bit of moisture leaking from the head of Justin’s cock, followed the same motions his thumb had just traced. 

Justin’s eyelids drooped as he watched, hypnotized by the sight of the dark head moving against his prick. When Brian’s tongue curled all the way around in a slow circle, lips feeling ahead for the mouth to descend, cock engulfed, tongue moving downward – Justin’s eyes closed completely. He wanted to close himself off to everything else, no sight, no sound, no taste, just the feeling as he rode waves of sensation from the best blow job on earth, his dick swallowed completely, in deep toward the back of a hot throat, back out, Brian’s tongue trailing base to tip, mobile, forward and back, building the urgency of movement to sensation, then that familiar tightening began to coil just beneath his sternum as it was drawn down, drawn out, like an electric current sweeping over his body, up his thighs and… 

He came with a gasp that had Brian’s name in it, his fingers clutching Brian’s hair. When Justin let his hands drop back to his sides, Brian straightened up, pulled down the hospital gown, and drew the sheet back up. Justin tasted himself as Brian kissed him. 

“Anybody could have walked in.” Justin’s words were more affectionate than admonishing. 

Of course, a knock on the door followed this statement. Brian lifted an eyebrow. Justin shrugged. He was covered now. No harm, no foul. “It’s open,” Brian called.

“Yes, I know,” Jennifer said as she walked in. “Did you?” Her dry words sank in, and Justin blushed, sudden and scarlet. “Don’t worry, honey, you only gave the intern an eyeful, I’m afraid he says you’re on your own for breakfast.” 

Justin heard Brian’s intake of breath as he prepared to give his canned reply, and he kicked at Brian with a knee before Brian could inform Jennifer of the nutritional content of semen. Then he winced. Fuck, his back. That hurt. 

Jennifer saw Justin’s look of pain, and she instantly shifted from prudish scold to concerned mother. “How are you feeling?” 

“He feels like shit, understandably,” Brian bit off. Damn, he hated that question. Katie Couric, and now Jennifer.

“Really,” Jennifer replied coolly, staring him in the eye. “You couldn’t have been that good, then.” She turned back to Justin, missing Brian’s widening eyes. “How are you, sweetie?” 

Justin couldn’t help laughing. “My back feels like crap, the rest of me feels… pretty good.” He smirked, and Brian could not be more proud. Before Jennifer could respond to that, Justin shifted back to wounded son, offsetting any potential offense. “My throat’s better.” 

Jennifer placed the bags she had brought with her onto the floor. “I picked you up a pair of pants, also sweat pants if those don’t fit, and a t-shirt and jacket. I figured you wouldn’t want to wear the clothes you had on yesterday. ” 

“No, definitely not. Thanks, Mom.” 

She turned to Brian and handed him a coffee carrier holding three cups. Starbucks coffee cups. Brian’s smile expressed his delight. “Oh, Jennifer. You’re my favorite mother of today.” 

“The black one is for you,” she replied. “I know you don’t like calories.”

“Is there one with cream and sugar?” Justin asked hopefully. 

“Yes, it has the C/S written on the lid.” She accepted her own cup of herbal tea, and Brian distributed the other two appropriately. “The press wants to hear from you, you know.” 

“No.”

“Justin…”

“No.” 

Jennifer handed Justin the Washington Post she had picked up in the lobby. Brian saw she was carrying two more papers: New York Times and the Chicago Tribune. The plane crash was in the headlines, of course. “Page two,” she said. Justin glanced up at her quizzically, then opened the paper.

In a side box, “Hero of 512 Survives Earlier Near-Fatal Incident.”

“Incident?” Justin muttered. He skimmed through the article. “Saved nine… oh, bullshit… Holy shit, Brian, listen to this, ‘Taylor survived an attack by fellow St. James alumnus Christopher Hobbes following his controversial attendance at that school’s senior prom, which he attended with local businessman Brian Kinney…’” He looked up. “What does this have to do with anything? Controversial? A bat in the head is ‘controversial,’ for fuck’s sake! Dancing with another man is not! Why are they bringing this up now?”

Jennifer moved across the room to look out the window, obviously unable to answer. 

Brian took the paper out of Justin’s hands and scanned the headlines. “Actually, about the press, I had an interesting conversation last night with an old acquaintance. You might want to rethink talking to them, or, at least, one of them…”

***

“I’m not a hero,” Justin answered Betsy’s question regarding how he felt to be a hero, ignoring Brian’s rolling eyes. “Look, all I did was yell to people I saw stumbling around, to tell them that we’d found a way out. I grabbed Grace because nobody else had. I mean, come on, how old is she? And her father was clearly dead, someone had to get her out of there. And Leah, I didn’t do anything for her; she was clutching at me, refusing to let go of my shirt. I went to the emergency door because I’d listened to the safety lecture, that’s all, nothing special. We were damn lucky we were able to move the stuff that was there. I could just as easily have led us to a dead end.” 

“But you didn’t.”

“Seriously, it was pure luck. I think people need to just, I don’t know, latch onto a story that makes them feel that something as stupid and tragic as a plane crashing, that some sort of lesson of human capability comes out of it. They want to believe people aren’t just stumbling around and just barely managing not to die. No one wants to believe that success is more or less shit luck, and there’s no real reason one guy is rewarded and another guy loses. We need to talk about how most people are trying to do the right thing, and not just reward the ones who manage to succeed. I bet there were people in the back of the plane who died trying to help each other and failed, but only because they had the bad luck to be in a hopeless situation. We can all feel good about ourselves now, as long as we try. I don’t feel good about myself because something bad happened to me, and I happened to get lucky and live through it. The truth is, it was horrible and terrifying and chaotic and nobody knew what was going on, me included. I only went to that door because I remembered the safety lecture, but anyone’s guess was as good as mine.” 

“But you didn’t jump out right away. And you could have. Your choices are celebrated because you made the right ones, when you had a choice.”

Justin frowned. “There really wasn’t a choice, though. Of course I made sure Grace and Leah made it out. And the people screaming, I yelled so they’d know where the exit was, but I don’t think I waited around, either.” They’d gone over the details of the crash; Justin was tired of it already. Other people were exaggerating the story they wanted to believe; Justin was pretty sure he had jumped out before others had. 

“Brian tells me you didn’t want to talk to the press at all, but then you changed your mind. Why?”

Justin looked over at Brian, who stared back blankly. He turned back to Betsy. “I didn’t want to go through… all that public scrutiny again.”

“You’re talking about the incident at the St. James prom.”

“Incident.” Justin snorted. “Yeah, I changed my mind about talking to the press when I read an article describing my bashing as another horrible ‘incident,’ like there’s any comparison to 512 crashing. My bashing would be like Flight 512 only if someone blew up the plane specifically to kill me. I didn’t get so lucky in the prom ‘incident,’ I got caught in the fire. My skull was shattered and my brain was caved in. I still have residual nerve damage. My motor control is permanently screwed. And the press all but said I got my life tossed off the rails because of the ‘controversial’ fact that I danced with another man at my prom. They blamed Brian for seducing me, and me for being gay, when the only person who should be blamed is Hobbes for choosing violence to solve his personal problems. People need someone to blame, same as they need someone to praise, and the press defaults to clichéd story lines to suit what people want to believe instead of exposing the truth. The truth is, Brian saved my life that night. If he hadn’t been in that parking garage, Chris Hobbes would have killed me. Hobbes would have tried to kill me even if Brian hadn’t shown up that night at all. He probably would have killed me. Who carries a baseball bat to a formal dance? He came in a limo! He brought the bat with him! But it was all too easy for the press to cast Brian as a villainous provocateur seducing the poor confused kid whose entire life was suddenly ruined. It was easy to blame Brian, when it wasn’t his fault at all, it was all Hobbes’s insanity. The truth is, Brian is the hero of that situation as much as I’m the hero of 512; we both did our best in really horrible circumstances. And when I read that Post article dredging all this up again, I realized that’s what bothers me – praise or blame, how people read these events is more convenient than truthful. People want to believe that if only they behave a certain way, they can control horrible things, and maybe even bad things won’t happen at all. People want to believe they’re ultimately in control, when none of us really are. So they look for demons to blame and angels to praise and they want stories that label each side clearly, because they don’t want to think about bits of brains stuck on bats, or the smell of burning bodies or Grace’s dad sitting in his seat with a giant piece of metal sticking out of his eye and that poor little girl screaming as she tried to pull it out…” Justin stopped, closed his eyes, and shuddered. 

“Justin…” Brian tried to redirect. 

Justin shook his head, waving Brian’s concern away. He wanted to finish, and he opened his eyes to lock his gaze fiercely on the reporter’s. “I know people don’t want to think about those things. I really don’t. But when I read my bashing called an ‘incident…’ I never addressed it publicly, and I’m sure it’s going to do no good, what I have to say. But what I did was not heroic, same as what I did at that prom was not demonic. I’m just human, like everyone else. I don’t want to become the focus of what people take from tragedy, I don’t want to have that happen to me again. It isn’t who I am, same as how people looked at me after the bashing wasn’t, either.” He frowned. “I just heard myself, I sound like a naïve idiot.”

Betsy smiled slightly. “Not at all. You sound just what you are: young and idealistic.”

“You think so?” Justin said softly. “You think I’d know better by now.” 

Brian interjected, “Betsy, you can get the facts about St. James from your own clippings, you’ve got them. It’s in the past, Justin’s got on with his life. He’s kept his head about him enough when he was in the wrong place at the wrong time yesterday to help out a few people in a bad situation.” Back on point, in more realistic phrasing. 

She followed that leading comment fairly easy; Justin was the media darling of the moment. Why spoil something that sold? “So you two are still together?” Betsy asked.

Justin glanced at Brian, and nodded. “Yep, still together.” 

Brian added, “More together now than then.” They smiled at each other.

“And not married?”

“No…” Justin looked at her, then glanced at Brian, who was looking at Betsy strangely. 

“Uh, can we move on from this line of questioning? It really has nothing to do with recent events.”

Betsy smirked. “Hey, look, I just think this is a nice tie-in that may revise the prom narrative; Brian flying to the rescue.”

“Yeah, once again, arriving only after the damage’s been done.”

“Brian.” Justin frowned, and reached out to touch Brian’s arm. 

“I don’t know, Brian, you’re the hero’s support network. You may not be there when he faces danger, but you’re there to give him back the strength he needs in the aftermath. That’s pretty awesome.” 

Justin smiled then. “See?” he said. “Betsy gets it.” 

“Pffft,” Brian scoffed. “We’ll wait to see if her paper prints that.” 

“Well,” she returned, “it’ll at least get in between the lines. Whether or not people will be ready to hear it is another story. So, you’re physically fine?” The change of topic was not smooth, but it was effective. Betsy knew to move on after she had gotten what she needed. 

“Yeah, except for a strained back. They’re releasing me soon. I just want to go home.” 

***

Betsy’s piece was carried in Pittsburgh’s paper that Sunday. Justin finished reading it as Brian returned from seeing Michael and the baby. Brian moved over to the couch, shrugging off his coat and kicking off his shoes, falling sideways to sprawl across the cushions. “Hand me the entertainment section?” Justin obliged, and then stared at him.

“What? How was Betsy’s piece?”

“You read it already.”

Brian shrugged, grunting his assent. 

“She didn’t include my graphic description of Grace’s father in the article. I’m pretty happy about that. But she still made it sound like I saved all these lives. Even if she did print my denials of doing anything special, she made me sound like I was just being modest. It doesn’t matter what I said, they print what they want. Even her, and I spoke with her directly about it.” 

“Yeah, welcome back to the media spotlight. I thought you’d appreciate the part where she ends by reminding her readers that if Hobbes had succeeded in killing you, all those people, including Grace and Leah, would be dead now.”

Justin snorted. “That’s not necessarily true.”

“Sure it is.” Brian hadn’t lifted his head from the Entertainment section, but he wasn’t reading the latest article on Britney’s broken knee and her idiotic personal life, he was waiting. Waiting…

“So, I found out why Betsy asked if we were married. It’s in the story, you know. My mom tells me she’s getting calls asking if you’re my spouse.”

Hm, that was fairly mild. Brian lowered the paper to look over the top edge. Justin was staring down at the article again. 

“Yeah… well…”

“Betsy spun it as a sign that we survived the whole St. James thing intact, and our relationship was an important part of my developing into the ‘wonderful young man’ I’ve become.” Justin laughed humorlessly. He looked up from the article. “I know you told them you were my husband so you could get information and get to Chicago as fast as possible. My mom appreciated your getting out there so quickly.” 

“She did?” 

“Yep.” Justin’s hand moved up Brian’s pant leg, stroked the instep of his foot. “How’s the baby?” He knew Brian had been to see Michael. Justin hadn’t left the loft since returning the week before. Brian had wanted him to come; he knew Justin got a kick out of kids, the smaller the cuter. That was NOT a sentiment Brian shared. But Justin told Brian he hadn’t wanted to draw attention away from Michael’s moment. 

“It’s a baby. It eats, it shits, it cries. Not very exciting, but you’d never know it to talk to Michael.” Brian grimaced, then relaxed as Justin began massaging his foot. “God, that feels good.”

“Hm.” Justin ran his thumb up Brian’s arch, kneading lightly on the muscle. His attention returned to the paper. “She still made me sound like some kind of… I don’t know, symbol, overcoming all this shit. That’s what I wanted to say just wasn’t the case.” 

“It’s the press. They’re going to sensationalize the story, it’s what they do. You just need to try to get your spin into play. And Betsy did that, she did a fairly decent job. Better than most. Hey, no one’s calling me Satan incarnate this time around. I take that as a win.”

“I guess…” Justin shifted over to move between Brian’s thighs and leaned back against his torso. Brian exclaimed, “Oof!” but just spread his legs to accommodate Justin leaning back against his body. 

“You know how they told me that if my back didn’t start feeling better, that I should go to therapy within a week?”

“Your back still bothering you?”

“No, it’s better… but I think… I think I might want to talk to a therapist. I mean, for my head.” His hands moved onto Brian’s knees, fingertips drawing circles against the denim of his jeans. 

“Headaches?” Brian sat up a little straighter, and lost the glazed look that had started to creep over his features. Justin had said he hadn’t hit his head, but he may not have remembered all the details of the crash itself. After the bashing, he had to be extra careful. Or, more accurately, Brian had to be extra careful for him. Sometimes Justin was ridiculously reckless. 

But Justin’s answer settled Brian’s concern. “No, not for physical pain. I think I need to figure out what’s happened to me. My thinking’s kind of messed up. A lot messed up. And… I’d really like to talk to someone about stuff. Somebody without an agenda.” His hands started moving upward. 

“Might be a good idea.” Brian reached down, grabbed Justin’s forearms, and moved his hands away. Brian sat up straighter, and leaned toward the coat he had dropped in the corner of the couch. “Hey… I got you something.”

Justin’s eyebrows lifted, and he shifted to sit next to Brian’s hip, his legs draping across Brian’s as Brian reached into the coat pocket and took out a blue with a white ribbon. 

Justin focused immediately on box’s distinctive color. “You got me something from Tiffany’s? Really?” Brian dropped the box in Justin’s hand. Justin shook the gift, his expression delighted. 

“Just open it,” Brian ordered, suppressing his own responsive pleasure at Justin’s reaction. “It’s the only place for something like this. I special ordered.” 

Justin carefully pulled the ribbon from the box, and, with one more glance at Brian’s studiedly impassive face, he opened his present. There, on a bed of cotton, was a medical bracelet. Justin took it out; the links of the chain gleamed, thin yet strong, securing a graceful plate. He saw the list of allergies inscribed on the plate’s surface. “Turn it over.” He flipped the plate, and read aloud the writing on the back, “Care of Brian Kinney.” Underneath was listed Brian’s phone number, address and Kinnetic’s email. Justin stared at the jewelry, weighing it in his hand. Though small, it was surprisingly heavy. 

“If you don’t like it, you can replace it, maybe with one of those leather friendship bracelets you and Daphne are so fond of, but you really should have something…” 

Brian had just been teasing, but Justin immediately refuted him. “No! I love it. Is it sterling?”

Brian snorted, sitting up, “As if. Platinum. Here…” he reached out, and took the med bracelet out of Justin’s hand to secure it onto Justin’s left wrist. Justin fingered the plate, flipping it to look at the underside. Then he looked up at Brian. “You’re right, I probably should have one of these.” But there was a hesitation in his expression that Brian couldn’t help but see, his heart sinking. “You don’t like it.”

“No! I do, it’s just…”

“Spit it out, Justin.” 

“Shouldn’t it have my name on the back as well? I mean…”

Brian laughed hollowly. “I am never going through that again, not knowing. They find you, unconscious, I’m going to know as soon as they do. And I’ll also know they’re not injecting you with something that can kill you. Never again, that was…” He shuddered. Justin moved to brush the hair off Brian’s forehead. Brian put both arms around him, and drew him in closer. With his lips against Justin’s hairline, he continued, “And I knew you would get pissy and accuse me of having my name on your med bracelet as a way of controlling you or something, and since we’re past that, or,” at Justin’s look, he amended, “Since I’m working on getting past that…”

“It is kind of like a pet license or something,” Justin commented drily. 

“Funny you mention that…” Brian hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, and drew out a fine chain, pulling it all the way out to reveal an oblong object at the bottom of the chain. Platinum as well, of course. He handed the dog tag to Justin, who turned it over and read, “Care of Justin Taylor.” Under this was the loft’s address, along with Justin's cell phone number and email address. Brian said, “I would never put you through that, either, so I figured…” 

Justin shut him up by dropping the chain and kissing him deeply. He broke off too quickly, before Brian wanted; hell, Brian wanted to move on to kissing other things as well, but Justin had started laughing, hard. Brian sat up and looked at him quizzically, before he realized it was a laugh of pure joy, and nothing but. Brian quirked an eyebrow, and waited. 

“I just… I swear,” Justin gasped, catching his breath. “You know how I said in the hospital that I felt like piece of me was missing? I swear, when I was kissing you just now, I heard my voice echoing from like, somewhere else, saying ‘You love me, so much…’” 

Brian bit his lower lip, then let it go. “Yeah, I do.” At Justin’s astonished expression, Brian continued, “You know I do, Sunshine, don’t get that look. I just… I hated that, well, that the last thing... the last memory you’d have of me was me telling you to get your own fucking cab, and not about how I, well…” 

Knowing how hard this was for Brian, Justin quickly moved to help him out. “Actually, I *was* thinking of you as the plane going down, how you’d be totally lost without me …” He said it lightly.

“Twat.” The word was thick with the memory of how close Justin’s fears had come to being true.

“You know,” Justin continued, “It’s a good thing it isn’t two years ago, because two years ago I would be pointing out, that you not only publicly used the ‘h’ word in describing your relationship to me, you’ve made a point that we have each other’s names on our persons, inscribed in precious metal. Good thing I don’t go for that sentimental bullshit anymore, huh?”

Brian looked down at Justin’s bracelet, then at the chain around his neck. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, but his smile was not insincere. “I might as well accept it, I’m fucked. From the minute I saw you, I’ve been completely fucked.” 

“Yes, but in a good, life-affirming way,” Justin replied, as his body slid up against his partner’s, hands slipping underneath Brian’s shirt and against the warm skin to feel the beating heart beneath.


End file.
